


As High as the Sun

by neonheartbeat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Attacks, Ben Solo has a Big Dick, Ben Solo is a Mess, Caught in the Act, Comic-Con, Conventions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Kissing, Meta, Miscommunication, Multi, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reconciliation, References to Drugs, Rey Kenobi, Scars, Touch-Starved Kylo Ren, Trauma, Vaginal Fingering, Vomiting, i've only got so much quarantine time so i'm gonna get real meta with it, maladaptive coping mechanisms abound here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23228572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonheartbeat/pseuds/neonheartbeat
Summary: Ben Solo, Academy-nominated actor known in geek circles mainly for his role on the science fiction showInterstellar Pursuitsseveral years ago, finds himself unwillingly sitting at a convention across from Rey Nessuno, a voice actress for the most popular video game of the last two years:Galaxy Wars: Frontline Crimson.  There's only one problem: he doesn't want to be here. Actually, there's another problem: he insults Rey's line of work to her face on accident. Wait, no, there's a third problem: Rey thinks he's an elitist prick, and they have to spend two more days working in the same building...
Relationships: Amilyn Holdo & Ben Solo, Armitage Hux & Bazine Netal, BB-8 & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Ben Solo & Rose Tico, Finn & Rey (Star Wars), Han Solo & Ben Solo, Kaydel Ko Connix & Temmin "Snap" Wexley, Maz Kanata & Ben Solo, Maz Kanata & Rey, Paige Tico & Rose Tico, Phasma & Kylo Ren, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 98
Kudos: 353
Collections: Reylo - AU's (Star Wars)





	1. ephemeral

**Author's Note:**

> This AU brought to you by a prompt from @queerloren and my subsequent excited flailing: https://twitter.com/queerIoren/status/1225057209501044736
> 
> CW for some convention typical sexism, vomiting, and a description of a panic attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I commissioned the amazing @lucia_rinkel for this BRILLIANT piece showing Ben and Rey. Everyone go follow her right now on Twitter. NOW.

The high was ninety-six degrees. It was the middle of July, the air conditioning in the Orange City Convention Center was cranked up all the way, and Ben Solo was still sweating under his button-up shirt, even though he’d rolled his sleeves to the elbows. He’d been promised a bottle of cold water: that was an hour ago, and the convention volunteer who had been assigned as his table handler kept shooting him apologetic grimaces every so often. She was sweating too, her bright blue GalaxyCon T-shirt dark at the neckline. Rose, he thought her name was. _Jesus, could it get any hotter?_

It was probably the crowds. GalaxyCon usually boasted about thirty thousand attendees every year, and even with all of them spread out over a hotel and the convention center, it was packed, and smelled to high heaven of unshowered bodies. Ben was not looking forward to the photo op period of the day, where he would get penned into a black-curtained space the size of a bathroom and smile woodenly for an hour and a half as fans streamed in and out in rapid-fire cycles, ushered along by orange-shirted StarPhoto employees. Last year at Wonder Expo, a woman had tried to climb his back, and had very quickly and quietly been removed by security. He’d reeked of her perfume for hours afterward. It had given him a headache. _What gets into these people?_ he thought, annoyed all over again. 

Damn his agent. Poe Dameron was the best, most charismatic booking agent with the best connections in the country, and when he’d brightly explained that a three-day appearance at GalaxyCon would net him so much cash he wouldn’t have to worry about working for the rest of the year, Ben had nodded (like a moron) and signed off on the trip (like an idiot). His photo ops had sold out within an hour, social media had blown up, and his name had been trending on four separate platforms. He mentally reviewed his schedule for Friday as he put himself on autopilot, nodding at the fan who was excitedly pushing him a glossy photograph of himself and signing it. _Table from ten to one. Photo ops from one to two-thirty. Lunch, thirty minutes. Three to five, table._ Saturday was no better: he would sit at the table from nine-thirty to noon, have lunch, rush to photo ops, do his panel (where he desperately hoped they’d have a good moderator) come back to photo ops, and be herded back to his table, not leaving until six. Sunday was going to be like Friday. He silently groaned as he forced himself to nod at the gushing woman across the table from him. _Each photo is a hundred and fifty dollars. A third goes to Dameron, a third goes to me, a third goes to the convention. That’s ten grand in my pocket for every two hundred people._ As long as nobody tried to do anything weird, he’d be fine. 

A rare lull in the crowd came up: nobody was in his line for a brief second, and he took the opportunity to look around the alley he’d been put in. He was boxed in on both sides by two other actors— he knew them, but hadn’t had the opportunity to say hello yet; Bazine Netal on his left, and Armitage Hux on the right. Bazine had been a guest star on about a hundred various sci-fi and CW-style shows since 2010, and her line was fairly strong with ordinary-looking people: Armitage had done a BBC production of— Ben squinted at the banner over his table. Yes, Sherlock Holmes, playing Watson, from the looks of that fake mustache, and then he’d played Jack the Ripper in a PBS adaptation. His fans were… mostly women. Mostly women with a lot of piercings. Wearing black. A lot of black. And costumes. Ben’s mouth twisted in an attempt to not laugh: Armitage had almost beat him out for the role of Darcy back in 2014 when they’d both auditioned for the Pride and Prejudice remake. Ben had gotten the part for his “dark looks” according to the casting director, and Armitage had taken his pasty, ginger ass back to London and done some Shakespeare play instead. 

God, he’d been up for an Oscar nomination for that role, too. Lost to that historical drama about… what had it been? Voter fraud? Voter rights? Something about voting. Ben couldn’t recall. He drummed his fingers on the plastic table and sighed. “Rose, any word on that water bottle?”

“No, sir. Sorry,” said Rose, wiping her forehead. “I think… I think the air might have conked out.” She looked apologetic, as if it was all her fault, and Ben sighed and shook his head. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He should have had a paid handler, someone to send off to get him some damn water. It wasn’t Rose’s fault. “You’re not getting paid to go be my errand girl.”

“I’m not getting paid at all,” she said cheerfully. “If I can sneak off to grab you one, though, I will.”

Not getting _paid?_ Ben blinked. “What do you mean, you’re not being paid?”

“It’s volunteer,” she explained. “I get free admission, though, so when I’m off at noon, I’m gonna throw on half a costume and go check out the artist alley with my sister. She’s over in photos. Oh—” She turned, facing a giggling, shy group of young women. Ben half-heartedly waved at them, and they dissolved into squeaks. “Hi,” said Rose, the perfect picture of professionalism as they hurried up to her at the end of the table. She tapped the cash box and sign. “Autographs are fifty dollars! Cash only, please.”

The girls drew closer, all of them blushing. Ben sighed: they couldn’t be over twenty-four. There were five: one of them was wearing very elaborate black costume armor made of what looked like foam sheets and a bright red wig that reached to her waist, one was wearing a bright purple catsuit and cape, and the other three were in more or less normal clothes. “Can we all chip in for one?” asked the girl in armor, nervously eyeing him from behind the table. _Yes,_ he thought, sighing, _pay thy price and approach with caution; the zoo animals bite._

“Only if you send us copies,” said one of the ones in normal clothes, digging through her purse. “Oh… shit. I only have a five. I bought a coffee this morning.”

“No worries, I’m sure I have another ten in here somewhere,” said Armor Girl, clumsily looking through her bag with foam-gauntleted fingers. Her face got redder as she looked around, clearly not finding the remaining money, and Ben felt a stab of sympathy: he never did conventions, and she had clearly worked hard on that costume. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Rose. “Let me run down to the ATM on the first floor.”

“Wait,” he said, and she whipped her head around, eyes wide. “It’s fine. Forty-five is fine.” _It’s five fucking dollars. You’ll live._ “Come on over.”

“Really?” said Armor Girl, looking stunned.

“Really. Come on.” He beckoned, and she beamed, stepping over to him with her friends as Rose let her pass by, giving him a look. “You go ahead and pick a photo.”

“Oh… jeez. Um.” She tilted her head and examined his table: he fully expected her to pick up the photo of himself in full makeup and ear prosthetics from _Interstellar Pursuits_ , like most people did, but her hand paused on a glossy eight-by-ten of himself in eyeliner and leather. “Oh, my God! I totally forgot you were in _The Soul Thief!_ ”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at her enthusiasm. “Me too. Three episodes from a five-season show? Not really a great resume spot.”

“But they were great episodes!” She tapped the glossy photo. “Twitter blew up for weeks about how good the writing was, and I remember I totally cried when you— I mean, when Calum Voviene sacrificed himself to destroy the Destiny Stone and gave that awesome speech about rain on the edge of the rings of Saturn. _Ugh._ ” 

Ben suddenly remembered that speech, as clearly as if he’d just put down the script. “ _Princess,”_ he quoted, watching her mouth along in delight, “ _you say that I cannot do this thing, that it is terrible; yet nothing will change and the world will be lost unless someone does something great and terrible. I will not be gone. I will be in the stars, every atom of me: I will be in the rain, in the firestorms on the edge of Malevus, in the ice burning forever in the rings of Saturn. Remember me. Remember me.”_

“Chills,” said one of the other girls, looking awed. 

“I’d like this one, definitely.” Armor Girl pushed it toward him. 

“Sure. What’s your name?” Ben uncapped his silver Sharpie and waited.

She clapped her hand to her head. “Oh! I’m such a dumbass. Bee.”

“Bee like… a bumblebee?” He’d heard stranger names, but he wanted to make sure.

“No, B-e-a, Bea. Short for Beatrice, but I hate that name, so everyone calls me Bea. I use a bee as my logo, though, so you were close, and plenty of my friends write it like that, b-e-e.”

“You do costuming work?” He indicated the armor with his free hand as he signed the photo. 

She grinned. “Yeah, on the side. Built this Galaxy Wars armor from scratch in, like, three weeks. Lots of crying, lots of E-600 stuck to my fingertips, blood, tears.”

“That’s impressive. Well done.” He wrote in clear block print above his signature: _BEA— DO SOMETHING GREAT AND TERRIBLE_ and drew a little bee, wings and a dotted trail to show where it was flying. “Here you go. And don’t even worry about the money.”

“Seriously?” Bee gaped. 

“Yeah. Go on and have a good rest of the day. Nice to meet you.” He waved her off and watched her look down at the autograph finally as she was passing his line of sight, and she whipped her head back to grin at him— then she was gone. Dameron would probably scold him for coming up short. Worth it. Nice girl. 

He heard a vague British accent from his line again, and mentally prepared himself for another wild costume as he turned to look… but this was someone with a badge around her neck, the lanyard showing at the line of her cardigan but the actual badge itself tucked into it: he couldn’t tell if she was an exhibitor or a guest. Attendees got yellow lanyards. Hers was bright, GalaxyCon blue. “Hi!” she chirped at Rose, beaming, and _that_ was a million-watt smile: whoever said Brits had shitty dental work was lying. “Fifty for an autograph?”

“Yes, cash only.”

“Great!” Then she was in front of him, and Ben had to mentally collect himself for a minute; staring directly into that smile was like looking into the sun. “Gosh, there’s a lot here. Sorry. I’m— well. Really thrilled to meet you, honestly.”

“Oh… thanks,” he managed, trying not to blink too much. She had an adorable straight little nose, and gorgeous eyes: hazel eyes, angled brows, a great set of cheekbones. _I should shake her hand. Should I shake her hand? No, that’s weird._ “You’re working here this weekend too?” _Stupid question! Of course she is, she’s either an exhibitor or a guest!_

“Yeah, till Sunday night,” she chirped, looking over his table. “Oh, my God, _yes!_ ” She pounced on a photograph, the one mostly-untouched stack of production stills from _Thornfield Hall_ . “I watched this in the middle of the night and I’m stunned my hair didn’t turn stark white. You were _brilliant_ as Rochester. Do you know, nobody ever makes decent adaptations of _Jane Eyre_ , and I thought I was hallucinating when it came up on Amazon Prime?”

Ben's mouth fell open. This was the first time at any appearance he’d ever done where anyone had ever tried to engage him about _Thornfield Hall._ “Yeah?” he managed, trying not to choke on his own excitement. “I own a couple copies. I actually own, um, a first edition copy, in the original three separate volumes.”

“No _way_ ,” she gushed. “I bet you’re afraid to touch it.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I made all my notes in a normal copy, you know, from a bookstore, and I read it about five times before I even stepped foot on set.”

The girl was flushed, almost giddy. “I wrote my thesis in uni on _Jane Eyre._ I just adore how she sticks to her principles no matter how much trouble she’s in, and I _love_ the perspective of, you know, how we see her grow into the person she becomes, from a child to an adult? Nobody had ever done that before in a novel.”

“Yes!” he almost shouted. “Yes, it’s one of the most incredibly feminist psychological thrillers—”

“—and the use of first-person was _so_ criticized at the time—”

“—as well as its ‘anti-Christian’ attitudes, which is _hilarious,_ because it’s—”

“—an absolutely brilliant picture of moral strength!” 

They stood looking at each other from across the table. Ben felt like he couldn’t smile any wider, and she was practically _sparkling_ , her hazel eyes shining. “What’s your name? I’ll give you the autograph for free. Don’t even try to pay.”

“Mr. Solo,” Rose said, warily, but the woman was beaming. “Rey. That’s R-e-y. They say never meet your heroes, but _wow,_ they were wrong.”

His heart swelled as he signed the still she’d picked out: himself in a dark cloak and eighteen-forties costume, looming in the doorway of a hall. “I’m amazed I found someone who’s actually into literature and, uh, you know, media that isn’t cheap, weird trash here. My God.” Ben smiled at her as he slipped her the picture. “You have no idea how many anime and video game people I’ve been inundated with. As if anyone could get any intellectual stimulation out of pushing buttons for four hours.”

Rey’s face… completely fell. Collapsed, like a building imploding in on itself: her smile vanishing in a flash, and Ben suddenly felt like he’d been dunked in the Arctic, despite the sweat running down inside his shirt. “Oh, um. Right,” she said, a little half-shrug as she took a step back, not looking at him. Horror struck him: was she _crying?_ _Shit. shit, shit, shit. What? What was it?_ “Thanks… for the picture, Mr. Solo,” she managed, and she was definitely crying, nose red as she turned and hurried away across the aisle.

Ben sat there, shocked, before he turned to Rose. “Who the hell was that?” he demanded.

“I have no idea. She’s not in my area,” said Rose, looking just as taken aback as he felt. 

“Hey, Solo,” shouted Armitage Hux, and he jerked his head over to see the man laughing at him, accompanied by his fans, who all seemed like they were getting a kick out of the situation. “Next time you’re trying to talk to a fan, just a tip— making them cry is _bad!_ ”

Ben pressed his lips into a tight seam and ignored the taunt. If he shouted back, it would be all over the gossip blogs and subreddits in moments, and he did not need that on his path back to trying to get his career restarted. 

* * *

Photo ops were a blur, a total nightmarish smear of black and orange and lights exploding as he glued the most sincere, close-lipped smile he could on his face and held out his arm as people moved in and out, in and out. The shutters clicked and clicked and clicked. Seven seconds for each photo, max: eight and a half people a minute, five hundred fourteen people an hour, twenty-five thousand, seven hundred dollars for an hour, and another thirteen thousand for the extra half-hour. _Thirty eight thousand, five hundred fifty seven dollars for Friday alone, and that’s just photo op revenue._ Some people asked him to pose with them. He did. Nobody asked him for a hug: most people who were fans of his already knew his dislike of hugging, of physical contact, especially with strangers. Even if he hadn’t been sweating his ass off, he would have politely declined.

“The air conditioning is broken,” said Maz, the StarPhotos team leader, an hour and ten minutes in. She had to be about seventy, and wore huge Coke-bottle glasses, peering at him with concern as he fanned himself. “They’re working on it. Nothing we can do. Sorry, kid.”

“No problem.” He tried not to breathe through his mouth: it was like he could taste the body odor wafting through the place. Why had he worn khakis? _Twenty more minutes. I can do this._

And he did. The last photo was taken, and he was escorted out and down to the back garage, where someone had started a car for him, the air conditioning already running. He could have cried. Blessed, cool, fresh air. Ben sprawled out on the leather seats and unbuttoned his shirt at the throat, his belly growling. “Tacos,” he said, mentally exhausted. “And coffee. Anything. I’m not picky.”

“You got it,” said the driver, and off they sped to the nearest drive-through, the July sun beating down on them.

* * *

With a full belly and an added jolt of caffeine, Ben Solo bounded back to his table, feeling ready to power through the rest of the day. No more photo ops, just tables. _Thank God for that._ He could almost forget the disastrous incident with Rey, wipe her crumpling face out of his memory. There was one reason he was here at this thing, and it was to make enough money to pay his bills for the rest of the year so he didn’t have to do something humiliating, like voice some rubbery animated character on a B-list children’s film. _I’m above that,_ he thought with some disdain. _Miles above that._

Ben sat back down at the table and signed more autographs: more people in costumes showed up, some dressed like his character Vox from _Interstellar Pursuits_ , plenty dressed as random other things he’d never heard of and didn’t care about. He smiled, listened, signed, shook hands: it was a repeating cycle like a washing machine. Wash, rinse, spin, repeat. 

It was precisely four o’clock when he heard the crying. He looked up, taken aback, and saw Rey. She was sitting at a table one aisle down, just visible through the crack between two black curtains facing him that backed two tables across the way, and her nose was red. The only thing visible was a piece of her banner, showing some animated cartoon character with a ponytail, and a sliver of her table. 

So she was a guest. Maybe she was a writer for some cartoon, or an animator, but that didn’t matter: she was a _guest,_ a fellow artist, and he’d made her cry. Ben sat there, shaken with guilt, which wasn’t a sensation he felt often. He should go over. He should apologize, he should say something—

But his line was filling yet again, fans were waiting, and Ben tore his eyes away from the crack in the curtains.

* * *

Set free, he went back to the hotel, back to his room. They’d given him a good room, an executive suite: it had French doors leading into an enormous bedroom and a huge bathroom and a sitting area, and it all felt horribly empty and impersonal. He toed off his flat-soled sneakers and went to the bathroom, stripping down and turning the shower on as cold as it could go before jumping into the freezing spray. Teeth chattering, he scrubbed himself down from head to toe with the hotel-provided body wash, imagining all the accumulated BO molecules and sweat sloughing off him and down the drain. When the soapsuds had been rinsed away, he turned the water to scalding hot and washed again until he finally felt clean, then stepped out onto the mat and wrapped a towel around his waist after he’d dried off.

Ben looked at himself in the mirror. He looked every bit of thirty-one, considering the slight crow’s feet at his eyes and the silver threads in his hair that his agent kept insisting he dye over to stay in the casting type he’d been for the past ten years. He’d played a father literally once, and Amilyn had almost had a heart attack when he’d landed the role. Ben could almost hear her, as if she was right there in the bathroom with him: _you have at least five more years to go before you should be reasonably cast as a father. Those roles don’t pay half as well as typical male lead roles. Don’t get typecast too soon._

“Yeah,” he said aloud to his reflection, “because the last action film went so _well_ , Amilyn.” _Death Squad 4_ had been lined up to be one of the biggest blockbusters of 2017, and he’d landed a supporting role, which he’d been… well, not exactly professionally happy about, but, hey, a job was a job, and if that meant he had to take his shirt off and glare and spit out lines that sounded like an eighteen year old had written them in exchange for a hefty paycheck and some more visibility, that was fine by him. 

Then, Scene 136 had come up.

Ben reached up and traced the scar high on his left shoulder, then down to the matching one at the left side of his waist. Two misshapen, hideous, discolored puckers of tissue, showing where the camera crane had swung too slowly and struck him as he hurtled down a road in a car with no seatbelt. On his right shoulder, above his bicep, was another lighter pucker of flesh: that was where he’d been flung into the dashboard. Topping the whole thing off was the thin, barely-there scar that bisected the right side of his face from just by the inside of his eye to his jaw, and it continued below the collar in a much more obvious, ugly rope of hard tissue, snaking down past his collarbone and ending at his right pectoral: that was from the cheap safety glass that had gouged a furrow through his face and chest. The SAG was still mired in litigation with the production company, trying to get him his compensation, which was his fault, because after the director, S. B. Snoke, had heavily implied this shot was absolutely necessary for the film and that they could not do it with a stuntman, Ben had insisted on doing it. 

He tried to push the memories down: the helicopter blades, his makeup artist screaming for someone to fucking call someone— Phasma had been the first one to break the cordon and race across the street, all six feet three inches of her, immaculate white Nikes spattering in the pool of blood he was lying in, all while the camera was still running. Snoke had bellowed at her to get out of the shot, because nobody had realized yet he was seriously injured, and _then_ they had all scrambled for their phones when she’d held up her blood-streaked hands...

Amilyn had sent Phasma flowers afterward. Ben had sent her and her wife a bottle of Scotch, as he usually did when he knew he was making someone’s life difficult. _Fucking First Order Films._ He’d cashed in a million or so from insurance, and thank God Amilyn had made him take out the policy: being unable to do roles that required shirtlessness meant he was out a good fifty percent of possible roles. Almost all of the money had gone to fix his face. _Lots of famous actors have scars,_ she’d said cheerfully, patting his arm. _You’ll be fine._

“Not like this,” Ben said aloud into the silent bathroom, and turned away, flinging the damp towel into the corner of the room.

* * *

Saturday morning dawned, and with it, the realization that he still had two full days of draining social interaction to fulfill. _You can do this,_ he thought, dragging himself up out of bed at six-thirty and throwing on the workout clothes he’d brought along. The hotel had a fitness center, and he doubted anyone else would be down there so early. 

He called the desk, asked for them to bring up an egg-white omelette and black coffee at seven-thirty, pocketed his key, and headed down, pulling his black hoodie over his head on the off-chance that someone might be in the elevators. Twelve floors down, the elevator dinged, and he stepped out. 

The fitness center was adequate. Not as nice as some of the places he’d stayed, but definitely workable, and Ben settled into his routine: half an hour of cardio flew by like nobody’s business, and he settled in for the weight half. He’d just lain down on the weight bench and spread his knees, ready for the next set of bench presses, when the door swung open and he saw a flash of light color out of the corner of his eye. “Oh,” said a light, female voice, and he knew that voice, knew it like it’d been playing on repeat in his brain for hours, which it had.

Ben almost dropped the barbell onto his sternum. “You—” he managed, and racked it, sitting up. “Rey?”

She was wearing tight-fitted, black spandex leggings, a dark gray sports bra, and not much else. Ben’s brain stuttered to a stop for a moment. “I— I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, stumbling over her words as she backed up. “Sorry. I’ll— I can go. It’s—”

He blinked. “What? No, you don’t have to go. You’re staying here. You have just as much a right to the weights as I do.”

Rey half-smiled, cautious and shy, and it hurt to see her hold back from that brilliant grin he knew she had. “Right. No, I just— you, um, probably want your space. I know I would.”

Why couldn’t he think of a single fucking thing to say? She wasn’t wearing makeup. He could see her freckles: light and spattered across her nose, nothing like the weird moles all over his own face. She wanted space? She wanted her space in here? Is that what she was saying? “Oh. Then I’ll just— I’ll finish my reps, and uh. Get out of your hair.”

“Right,” she said, clicking her tongue on the _t_. “I’ll just, um. I’ll be over by the leg press.”

Ben forced himself to lie back down and finish out the set of bench presses. He’d never been more careful of his form, and once or twice he glanced out of the corner of his eye to see if she was watching, but she was studiously not looking at him, simply doing her quad exercises on the machine. He finished, got off the bench, wiped it down, and headed out, not bothering to say anything to her on the way. Clearly, she didn’t want to speak to him, and he was not too keen on annoying her, especially after he’d made her cry—

Oh, wait. Oh, _fuck._ Ben halted as the door shut, frozen in place: he’d made her cry and he’d never apologized. He had to—

His phone rang, and he answered. “Hello?”

“ _Ben! How are ya, buddy?”_ Poe sounded ghoulishly cheerful for seven in the morning on a Saturday. “ _Listen. We’ve opened up another block of photo ops today. I know it’s last minute, but it’s gonna be first thing in the morning. Nine to ten. They’re already selling out.”_

Ben wondered exactly how much force had to be exerted on an iPhone X before the glass and metal shattered and splintered. Plenty, if the way he was gripping it was any indication. “Wonderful,” he said blankly, moving on autopilot to the elevator. “Panel’s still on?”

“ _So far. Moderator called in with the flu. You’re getting a volunteer. Don’t worry about it. GalaxyCon tells me she’s done this before at other conventions.”_

“Fantastic,” Ben gritted out between his teeth as he stabbed the button for the fourteenth floor with his finger. “Talk to you later.”

It wasn’t until he was stepping out of the elevator that he realized he’d never gone back to say anything to Rey.

* * *

Rey was pleased to say that she absolutely did _not_ spend an hour crying in her hotel room Friday evening, thank you very much. It wasn’t as if _the_ Ben Solo, her teenage crush and absolute idol, had torn her whole career apart in, like, a sentence or anything. _You’re twenty-three,_ she thought furiously, dabbing at her running mascara. _Get it together, for fuck’s sake._ Human beings were allowed to have an opinion, weren’t they? He just didn’t have to be so… blitheringly delighted about it as he’d straight up ripped into video games as a form of legitimate entertainment. 

It would be fine. She’d go back to her little booth under the banner that read _Rey Nessuno_ and plop her backside down for the rest of the weekend, and she definitely wouldn’t approach anyone else to be shot down. Really, who did these people think they were? “You get one cool historical drama role and suddenly you’re a _serious actor_ ,” she intoned in a sarcastic voice to herself, “who can’t be arsed to look at us _pitiful poor folks_ doing voice work.”

He had to know she did voice acting. It was in a ton of the promotional material for the convention _and_ all over her banner: at least four characters she was well known for giving life to in the past three years—Daisy from _East End Dead 2_ , Carina from _The Hour of the VVitch,_ Yvette from _Swords and Sorcery,_ and the one she was most proud of: Captain Ki’ra Frisson, from the phenomenon that was _Galaxy_ _Wars_ : _Frontline Crimson._ Galaxy Wars had been huge in the eighties, then revived five years ago (probably just for nostalgia’s sake) in spectacular fashion, with a new film trilogy, a spinoff show, a kid’s cartoon, and video game, _Frontline Crimson_ , which had turned out to be the year’s best selling game two years running— and Rey had landed the role of one of the main characters beyond all her wildest dreams. It had catapulted her into instant demand at every convention worldwide, paid for a new apartment in New York City, and gotten her an Audible book deal, in addition to putting her on every voice acting A-list _ever._ She’d distanced herself from her grandfather’s legacy, using a stage last name instead of Kenobi: Grandpa had been one of the best classic actors of the Golden Age of Hollywood and she didn’t want anyone accusing her of being handed her roles through nepotism and not talent. Plus, on this side of the pond, it went over better.

Ben Solo was… Rey sniffed and sat up. _A washed-up B lister who’s stuck here for the money and nothing else,_ she thought vindictively. Who did he think he was, being a dick to her over her job, when he hadn’t done anything good or critically acclaimed in years? _I’ll ignore him. I just won’t even look at him._

Rey went to sleep, woke up at six forty-five like she normally did, checked social media, posted a goofy selfie on her Instagram story and Twitter account with the caption “so excited for day 2 of #galaxycon!!” and got into her gym things. She could use a good “burn off steam” session, especially since today would consist of mostly sitting. 

When she got to the fitness center, though, she immediately realized she wasn’t the only one who’d had the same idea. Someone was lying on the weight bench, mid-deadlift; someone _big_ , with thighs each the size of her whole waist bracketing the padded bench, black track pants, black Adidas, black hoodie—

It was Ben Solo. She could make out the distinctive nose profile just as she said “Oh,” in recognition, and she must have startled him, because he almost dropped the bar on himself. 

“You… _Rey_?” Oh, he remembered her name? Didn’t seem to matter, because he was looking at her with an almost angry expression on his face— or maybe that was just how his face looked? Long, crooked, speckled with moles; weak-chinned, craggy cheekbones, hooded eyes with circles beneath them and a turned-down mouth that made him look angry all the time. Was there a male equivalent to Resting Bitch Face?

“I— I didn’t mean to intrude,” she stuttered, backing up as he racked the bar and sat up. He really was huge. Broad shoulders, thick waist, his signature long dark hair: he looked absolutely nothing like anyone’s typical idea of a male movie star— in fact, he looked the complete opposite. “Sorry. I’ll— I can go. It’s—”

“What?” Ben blinked at her, his brows drawing down, and she froze. “No, you don’t have to go. You’re staying here. You have as much of a right to the weights as I do.” His voice was low, authoritative, with an odd inflection (even for an American) that was hard to decipher.

Staying here— did he mean she was staying here at the hotel like him, or that she was… staying _here_ in the fitness room, like he was ordering her to stay here? Rey defaulted to a half smile, letting her lips quirk up at the corner. “Right. No, I just— you, um, probably want your space. I know I would.”

He looked exactly as lost as she felt, his big hands resting on his knees in an awkward sprawl that suggested he had no idea what to do with them. “Oh. Then I’ll just— I’ll finish my reps, and uh, get out of your hair.”

Okay. That was— okay. Rey nodded. “Right. I’ll just, um, I’ll be over by the leg press.” She hurried over, trying not to look at Ben: he lay back down and finished his deadlifts, lowering and raising with an almost mechanical perfection of form. Even more impressive, he was lifting something like three hundred and eighty pounds. She kept her attention on her own reps, but couldn’t help but sneak a peek when he wasn’t looking: his arms were really, really big. Like, “eat a whole chicken for every meal”, “size of my head”, “Bigfoot” big. _Christ. Why doesn’t he do shirtless roles more often?_ She remembered totally swooning at eighteen over him in that one Broadway play he’d done— had it been that gritty re-imagining of _Richard III_ _?_ She couldn’t remember, but she did remember the blurry photos someone in the audience had secretly snapped during the scene where he’d stepped onstage half-nude and covered in fake blood, teeth bared as water poured from somewhere above the stage and washed him off. _Perfect,_ her just-adult self had thought, heart all a-flutter: flawless skin, leanly sculpted muscle. He didn’t seem to be any less muscular, but he had gotten broader through the waist and chest than she seemed to recall him being several years ago. Age? Different fitness regimen? Rey swallowed hard and focused on her burning quads. If she didn’t stop, there’d be a wet spot on the bench, and _that_ would be—

Ben finished. He got up, racked the weight, wiped down the bench, and left without even a nod in her direction to acknowledge that someone else was in the room. She watched as he stopped suddenly in the hall… and answered his phone, walking along to the lift as if he’d totally forgotten she existed.

What a fucking _ass._ Rey finished her last set and got off the leg press, stretching again and gulping down water. She’d thought he was _nice_ at first _._ Imagine. _I’m not making that mistake again,_ she thought angrily, and sat down, plunging headlong into her tricep lifts.

* * *

Rey went back upstairs and showered, changing into a nice, professional outfit: tan trousers, wide-leg, cuffed at a capri length and tied with a belt in matching fabric (all the rage in Tokyo, apparently), a pair of chunky trainers, and a v-neck silk jersey blouse with little cap sleeves (because if it was still sweltering in that hall, she’d die in sleeves). She had to look nice: her photo ops were today— so on went some concealer for the blemish that had cropped up on her cheek overnight and mascara and some blush, a little lip gloss, a bit of powder for her brows. She couldn’t look washed out in the photos, so she popped a splash of contour into the line of her cheekbones, buffing it out until it looked natural. _There._ She posed in the mirror, admiring how the white blouse set off her toned arms and made her look a bit tan. Hair could be down, no biggie. Rey snatched up her badge, her phone, and her wallet with her hotel key before snapping another selfie and captioning it “Meet me on the con floor! Table 306!” Once that was posted, she headed out, making her way down to the lobby and hurrying across the street to the convention center. Miraculously, nobody at this hour really noticed her: most of the con-goers on Saturday were in cosplay and _very_ preoccupied with not crashing into other people, and that was why Rey showed up bright and early at her table at eight thirty, escorted by one of the convention-provided security guys. 

She already had a line. _Wow._ It was pretty solid, too, and lots of people had come in their costumes from _Frontline Crimson,_ including several really excellent Ki’ra Frisson variations: her ordinary officer uniform, her mess dress, her combat armor, and one _really_ obscure piece Rey knew was from concept art and concept art alone— dark tight trousers, high boots, a crop top with long sleeves, and the crest of the Imperial Navy on a shoulder pauldron. The girl wearing it was getting quite a lot of looks from quite a lot of men in the queue, and Rey made a mental note to have security watch extra-closely as she slid in and sat down in her seat, smiling at the first people in line. “Good morning! How are you?”

“We’ve been here since the doors opened!” said the two girls sitting on the floor, straggling to their feet, both wearing branded Galaxy Wars T-shirts. “It’s so nice to meet you finally!”

Rey beamed and started talking, heedless of the convention around her, the day ahead: this was what she loved.

* * *

On the other side of the convention center, secured behind black nylon curtains, Ben Solo was having a terrible morning. The cameras would not stop going off, and the people who kept popping in and leaving seemed endless. He felt strangled, stifled, like he might scream if he had to stand here for one more second, but he couldn’t get away, not when he’d promised Poe he would do it. Someone crowded in with three children, all in Interstellar Pursuits costumes. Ben wanted to run for his life. _Maybe I should take Amilyn up on that last offer for that children’s film,_ he thought distantly as he smiled and said goodbye on autopilot to the family. _I wouldn’t have to do this if I was working._

But working did not pay for medical bills and litigation. Ben swallowed it down and forced himself to keep smiling, close-lipped and blank, at the camera. He had this down to a science: say hello, hold out arm, look at camera, say goodbye. Again, and again, and again. _Repetition. Like rehearsals. Like lines. Just keep saying them over and over. Crowd cheers, curtain falls, we all go home._

Finally, _finally,_ the hour was done, and the black fabric fell to cover the door. Ben couldn’t stop himself from collapsing into a chair and taking several deep breaths, determined to keep face in front of the StarPhoto crew still inside: the slight blond girl with braided buns whose nametag read “Kay” and the photographer, a hefty guy with a thick black beard Ben vaguely remembered from the last convention he’d done. _Snap. They call him Snap because he snaps the photos..._ “Breathe,” said a voice he thought he knew, and then a hand was thrusting a cold water bottle in his face. He took it and saw to his disgust that his hands were shaking, then looked up into a face he recognized after a minute.

“Bee?” he asked, taken aback. She looked completely different out of her long red wig and makeup: her normal hair was a dull strawberry blonde, but there was no mistaking her.

“Yep. I’m volunteering the rest of the weekend. Bet you didn’t recognize me out of the, you know. Armor.” She smiled, and Ben uncapped the bottle and gulped down half of it in one swallow. “If you need a break for a sec, you can hide back here for a couple minutes.”

“No,” he said, even as every molecule in his body screamed to take her up on the offer. “No, I have to get to the table. This was last minute, it cut into my block of time, and people are going to be waiting.”

Her eyes went to his hands, then back to his face. “You’re shaking.”

Anger flared up. “No, I’m not.”

Bee shook her head. “Mr. Solo, it’s okay. This is a high stress environment—”

“I’m not _stressed_. I just—” He jerked up out of his seat, and took a deep, shuddering breath. “It was a last minute schedule change and I don’t care for that, I find it unprofessional on the part of my booking agent.”

“Oh,” said Bee. “Okay. When you’re ready to go back to your table, I’ll alert security to take you. And… you can take some more water bottles. We have a big cooler for the guests in the back.”

“What,” he said, trying to crack a smile, “do I look like a plant?” She didn’t deserve to be shouted at: it was Dameron who needed to be taken down a peg, not this college student who was just trying to have fun and do her job.

“No, but if you drink a lot, you can get away with more bathroom breaks,” said Bee, and winked conspiratorially at him. 

* * *

The table lasted forever. _Just another half hour and you can go to lunch, just another twenty minutes._ It was nothing like yesterday: Ben’s table was packed with people, the line huge, and the sensation that was prickling up his body had resolved into panic by the time he was finally able to shut the line down with Rose and get out the back door, out, out, _out._

He had just made it into the empty seclusion of the loading dock when he felt his stomach turn, and found a trash can just in time: everything he’d eaten in the last four hours along with two full bottles of water came hurtling back up as his eyes welled up and he gagged miserably. _Maybe I have the flu. Maybe I can cancel this whole fucking thing, fly home, and punch Dameron in the face._

“Oh, hell,” said a light, worried British accent, and he closed his eyes, knowing exactly who he was going to see if he turned around. “Mr. Solo? D’you need a drink?”

“The alcoholic kind? Sure. But it’s noon on a Saturday, so. Kinda. Frowned upon.” He spit into the garbage, trying to calm his frantic guts. 

“Here.” He heard her step closer, and then a hand was holding out a tin of Altoids. Gratefully, he took one. It felt immeasurably tiny in his hand as he put it in his mouth and chewed. “Anxiety attack? I get them too. Mostly in, ah, confined spaces. Can’t do escape rooms.”

“I don’t have anxiety,” he gritted out between his teeth. “I’m… sick or something.”

“Hmm,” said Rey, and stepped closer. “May I?” Ben just blinked at her, but when he nodded cautiously, she pressed the inside of her wrist to his forehead. “Hm, doesn’t feel like you’re feverish.”

“You have to check with your lips,” he said, flummoxed at the touch and then doubling down on his consternation when he realized what he’d just said. “Body temperature fluctuates at the extremities, it’s most consistent on your face, so checking—”

“Right,” she said, nodding, and leaned in, pecking him on the forehead. He froze. _Soft,_ her lips were soft, _really_ soft and firm and warm and— 

Rey straightened back up. “No, you’re not feverish, so you haven’t got a bug. Look, I’ve got a Xanax if you want one.”

“I don’t take drugs,” Ben said, narrowing his eyes: he’s surprised it took him this long to get offered something by a stranger at some kind of social gathering, but he’d been thinking more along the lines of “bags of cocaine at the Oscars” not “standing in a garage in the middle of the day”.

She looked slightly hurt. “It’s not like it’s recreational. It just calms you down, relaxes you. If you don’t want it, then that’s fine, but I’m not trying to give you meth in a back alley.”

Ben let out a deep, even sigh, shut his eyes, and clenched his hands into fists: why was he _always_ saying the wrong thing? Why didn’t anyone have a script for something like this? “What are the side effects?”

“What? Oh, of the Xanax?” Rey sounded a bit confused. “Um, just… you can have funny dreams sometimes. I think. I take half a milligram and I’m fine. You should take a whole one. You’re bigger than I am.”

Ben stared at the oval blue pill she tapped into his palm from a packet in her pocket, and swallowed. Okay. This was how this day was going, then: he’d thrown up and accepted prescription drugs from a woman he barely knew and it was only noon. He raised his palm and gulped it down dry. “Thank you,” he said.

Rey nodded. “It’ll start working in about an hour. You go get something to eat, ‘cause your breakfast’s in the bin.”

“I’ll just… ask for a car. Where are you going? I mean, doing? I—” Ben fought to control his words. “What are you doing out here, I mean?”

She brightened a bit. “Oh, I thought I’d get a ride down to a food truck I saw parked out on the curb by the entrance. Korean-Mexican fusion. Looked good. And I thought the name was great: _Seoulantro_. You know, like Seoul and then cilantro—”

“Yeah, I got it,” Ben said shortly, immediately regretting saying it the moment he saw her face sort of shutter down and go blank. _Why am I so bad at this?_ “I’ll… go find food. See you inside.”

“Yeah,” she said faintly, and stood there, watching as he got into the nearest waiting car and left.

* * *

He really did feel better. It took about forty minutes, but it was like his whole nervous system stopped churning on overdrive and slowed down, letting him breathe and think and move normally. Ben finished his food and asked to be driven back, feeling to his surprise as if he could actually, maybe get through the rest of the day now. 

When Ben got back to his table, though, it was chaos: apparently people had been lining up since he’d left and never moved. Weirdly, he didn’t feel as though he dreaded it anymore— it was more of a “hey, I can handle this” sensation, the panic sort of drifting over him as he sat down, but not actually touching him. _Maybe she’s right and I do have anxiety,_ he thought as he picked up his Sharpie and got to work. 

Even the panel went smoothly: he was relaxed and didn’t even care that every question was about _Interstellar Pursuits_. His moderator was a perfectly nice girl who had clearly done this before, and he started to think as he went back to photo ops again that maybe he could get through this weekend without an incident. Photos were a peaceful blur: people came in, went out, came in, went out— but this felt more like the ocean than a chaotic push and pull: natural, even, nice.

The minutes seemed to fly by when he got back to his table. Rose passed along Post-its with people’s names written on them, and Ben dutifully signed, had small conversations, even shook hands with a couple of people who came up and eagerly told him all about how much _Interstellar Pursuits_ had changed their lives. On and on the hours rolled, and around five, when the stream of people had fallen to a straggling trickle, Ben noticed that the medication seemed to be wearing off, his heart rate increasing and his belly knotting up again. _Shit._ Maybe he could beg another pill off Rey. _No, you only have one more hour. You can do this._

“I’m gonna stretch my legs,” he said to Rose, and she nodded as he stood up, unfolding his body from the cramped little folding chair behind the table, and stretched: his knees popped like firecrackers. _God, am I that old?_ He glanced over at the tables across the way, and saw that the black curtains that met right in the middle to block the view of Rey’s booth had come open a little, giving him a great view of her table, the line there (still going strong) and… her head as she leaned back, an expression on her face like she did _not_ want to be there. Ben frowned and squinted. Some man’s head was right up in her face, gesturing wildly, and her table volunteer looked as if he was about ready to punch the guy. _What’s happening over there?_

“I’m going to take a walk.”

Rose looked taken aback. “Bathroom break?”

“Sure. You tell them that. And call security while you’re at it, send them over to the next aisle.” Ben made his way around the table, legged it through the wide alley, and squeezed past the two tables facing him, ignoring Armitage laughing at him from his table: whatever he was crowing about, Ben didn’t care. 

He shoved past the curtains and halted in his stride just in time to hear Rey stiffly say “sir, I think you’re a bit too close, eh?” before he got a full, unblocked view of some guy’s sweaty hand reaching out and grabbing her left breast.

Whenever he’d read the phrase “so angry they saw red” in books and scripts, Ben had always rolled his eyes: nobody ever really saw red when they were angry, and it was some weird turn of phrase from bullfighting or something, wasn’t it? Just another overused cliche that writers everywhere had been using for eternity; just another thing to skim over and approximate. 

Except when Ben saw that hand stretch out and grasp Rey’s silk blouse, the immaculate fabric wrinkling as he squeezed, the indignant yelp from the woman’s mouth— the blood rushed directly to his face, his head, his whole _body;_ his hands shook, his mouth went dry, and for an instant a reddish tinge seemed to cast over the whole scene. _I’m literally seeing red,_ he thought, shocked, from the tiny place inside his mind that was _not_ the ninety-nine percent I Will Kill A Man In This Convention Center Right Now, No Holds Barred. 

He didn’t know how he’d gotten to the table, or how he’d managed to elbow his way to the front. Rey was sitting frozen, shaking, her big eyes round and scared and the guy was withdrawing his hand with a grin on his face that Ben wanted to slap off. “Call security,” he growled to the table assistant, who gaped up at him, clearly at a loss as to how to handle this situation.

“I… I don’t have a walkie-talkie, only the leads do—”

“What’s your name?” Ben asked.

“Finn. I’m just a volunteer.”

“Finn. You go find your lead and get whoever they are back here right _now._ I’ll handle this.”

The kid’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think I can just—”

“Finn,” Rey said brightly, a huge, forced smile on her face, “just go, please; I’m fine with Mr. Solo here.”

“What,” interjected the groper, still leaning over the table, “you gonna get me kicked out, Miss Nessuno? Bitch move. Where’s your sense of humor? I just asked if it’s true that you don’t wear bras in space.”

Ben turned, drew himself up to his full height, glared at the guy full in the face, and took a perverse pleasure in watching Groper Guy visibly wilt: he was probably about five foot nine, built as if he’d never left his basement, stringy greasy hair, and wearing an oversized shirt that had clearly been customized with some not-so-family-friendly fanart, half of which was the same female character with dark hair and a scar on her forehead lounging in barely-clothed (and some fully nude) pinup poses. A glance at the banner over Rey’s table connected the dots: it was the same character she… portrayed? Voiced? Voiced. Her banner read _voice actor._ Video games. _That was it. That was why—_ “Why don’t you go ask your mother if she wears a bra in space?” he shot back, getting some laughter from the line, half of whom had their phones out, recording. _God, if Amilyn sees this…_

Groper Guy went scarlet. “Fuck you. I didn’t come here to get shit on by some alpha Chad.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” muttered a girl in the line. “One of _those._ Listen, dude. Ms. Nessuno isn’t gonna fuck you because you grabbed her tit. Now get the hell out of her line.” That got a couple of cheers, which seemed to infuriate the groper.

“Shut up!” he yelled, whirling around. “You’re nothing but a fucking _hole._ I bet you let a bunch of roided out dudes with giant dicks—”

The uproar from the line almost drowned him out, and Rey was going pale. Ben leaned down. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmured, and her eyes found his, her throat bobbing as she nodded tightly in acknowledgement. 

The girl wasn’t done, though. She shoved her way past the other people around her and glared down at the guy: she was probably a volleyball player, standing at about six feet, with her brown hair pulled up in a bun and her pastel shirt exposing impressive abs. “I’m in a monogamous relationship with my _husband,_ you dweeby little incel,” she shouted, waving her left hand to show her ring. “Die mad about it.”

“Fuck you, you fucking bitch!” he screamed, and took a swing at her. Ben jolted forward instinctively, but there was no need: he missed, and then the girl lunged for him. To her credit, she knew her business well and didn’t try to bother with theatrics: a quick headbutt to the nose left Incel Guy choking on the blood streaming out of his face and down his throat, and a punch to the throat knocked him to his knees, gagging. She stepped back and shrugged, and the line exploded with shouting, not all of it nice. 

“This is proof _Galaxy Wars_ is being taken over by the liberal feminazis—”

“You’re just mad the movie directed by a woman was _good,_ you slimy little—”

“—did you _see_ that, holy shit—”

“Security’s coming!”

Ben reached up and waved, and the crowd parted to let security through: one blue-shirted lead, a cop, and two of the convention security officers, tailed by an anxious looking Finn, who was holding a bottle of water. “Evening,” he said shortly as they approached, and pointed to the still-coughing guy on the ground. “This gentleman just reached over the table and sexually assaulted this woman,” he pointed to Rey, who still looked shaken, “and then had his ass handed to him when he tried to physically assault another woman in line.”

“That true?” asked the police officer.

“All of us got it on video,” said a slighter girl, waving her phone. “It’s like, going viral on Twitter right now, but, yeah, that’s what happened.”

“Yeah,” another man put in, “he called that tall chick a ‘dirty hole’ or something and said she was a slut, and then he tried to punch her so she broke his nose.”

“And he’s breaking the dress code,” put in one of the security guards, eyeing him up. “With that shirt.”

“All right.” The cop bent down. “Let’s go for a little ride, kid. C’mon. Hands up.”

“I didn’t do anything!” screeched the groper, hands over his nose. “I’m a nice guy, I didn’t do anything, these bitches can’t take a fucking _joke,_ I’m gonna sue you and the con and the whole _city_ —”

As he was escorted off in cuffs, Ben exhaled deeply and unclenched his fist, suddenly realizing it had been balled up so tightly that the circulation was likely cutting off. “You all right?” he asked, turning and looking down at Rey as the team lead for the area elbowed her way in, apologizing repeatedly. Finn helplessly offered Rey a water bottle. 

“Five minute break!” barked one of the security guys, and escorted Rey and Ben back to a small, blocked-off partition behind her curtain. It was only then that she answered.

“Fine,” she said, voice gone a bit hoarse. She cleared her throat. “Fine,” she repeated. “Wasn’t as bad as the first time at WorldCon.”

“ _First_ time?” he asked, wondering if he’d heard her right.

“Yeah. Guy at a panel asked me to make sex noises for him on stage in front of about three thousand people, because he wanted to know what Ki’ra Frission—that’s the character I do—sounded like in bed.”

Ben’s brain ground to a halt. “What,” he said flatly.

She looked like she was breathing a little easier. “Yeah, and then at, oh, gosh— Midwest Ace, I had a guy somehow find out where I was leaving from and drove to the garage to try to catch me. Had to run through the center and out the other side to avoid him. Then the next day he came to the table all mad that I hadn’t come out.”

“Are you joking?”

“Mmm, ‘fraid not. Then there was the time a woman changed her name to Rae, that’s R-a-e, and edited her Galaxy Wars cosplay photos to look like me _and_ got cosmetic surgery to look like me and told everyone she worked in the industry when she didn’t, and cried her eyes out when she met me for a photo op and I just said it was nice to meet her, because apparently I was _supposed_ to say ‘ _ooh wow, you look exactly like me_ ’.” Rey offered him a small smile. “Happens. You know.”

“No, I—” Ben tried to get his thoughts in order. “That’s not. That shouldn’t be happening. You mean you put up with this at every convention you do?”

“Yeah. Why d’you think I’ve got a script for Xanax?” She leaned back and sighed. “I mean, it’s worth it, or I like to think so, for all the people who really, really adore what I do, and the characters. For every barking mad lunatic there’s a thousand lovely people who just want to meet me.”

He ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “But that behavior is unacceptable. Why— why would anyone— don’t you— shouldn’t you have higher security? Aren’t you afraid someone’s going to get hurt?”

“I mean, this kind of thing’s fairly standard when it comes to women in this industry,” she said, looking away. “So I just… figured I’d go along and just deal with stuff as it happened. I— thank you, by the way, for stepping in. Poor Finn’s done tables but never seen anything like that. I think he’s shaken up a bit.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” said Ben. “I had my table volunteer call security before I came over. I figured there was an issue. You looked… uncomfortable.”

“You… you saw me?”

Ben tried not to blush. “Yes. Through the curtains. I just stood up to stretch and saw your face and figured someone should do something. And someone _should_ , someone needs to give you better security or— or run some kind of PR statement through you about how—”

Rey shook her head emphatically, eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t want people being afraid to come up and say hello!”

He sighed. She was so young, and fresh, and _optimistic._ “Setting boundaries is only going to make the wrong people afraid to come up. Saying that it’s not okay to grab you and harass you is a completely reasonable request. Your agent would agree.”

Rey’s eyes snapped with some kind of defiance. “Yeah? Well, you’re not my agent, and I don’t need your advice, mister ‘video games are stupid fake shit that nobody with half a brain would like’ so I’ll thank you to go back to your table.”

Ben choked. He felt his face going hot, as if the blood inside his body had turned to fire, and he couldn’t look her in the eyes. “I…” He couldn’t get words out, couldn’t move for how embarrassed he was. “That was… that was a badly worded remark. I— I regretted it the second I said it. I’m sorry.”

The anger seemed to slowly drain out of Rey’s face as she took that in. “You… you did?”

“Yes.” Ben stepped back. “I’m not good at— I remembered when I saw you this morning. I just forgot to say anything. Sometimes I— things don’t come out right when I try to say them, or my mind gets ahead of me, and I— I should have apologized the second I said it. It was— it was—”

“Mean,” she prompted, and he went even redder. 

“Yes. It was mean.”

“And elitist,” Rey added, looking up at him with her nose crinkled up in mock disgust.

“I— yes, it was elitist. And rude.” Inspiration struck him. “And I’m sorry for snapping at you in the loading dock, and for implying that you recreationally used drugs.”

Rey laughed, and he almost fell over his own feet looking at that bright sunny smile, the way her pretty eyes crinkled up at the corners. “I thought you Hollywood pros were on every drug known to man,” she said.

“Not me,” he said, trying to keep his voice a little lighter. “Sober as a stone.”

“Still?” Rey mused, looking at him with an unreadable expression in her eyes. “Yeah, I remember reading about you— I mean, not you, the drug thing in Teen Beat. You said you’d never touch hard drugs. God, that must have been in… what, 2009?”

Ben remembered that interview. He had been… mid-twenties, still idealistic and young and determined and optimistic. Like she was now. “Yeah. Still.”

“If you want more Xanax for tomorrow— I mean, not to push it on you, but if it works all right, you ought to speak to someone about it.” She raised and lifted her shoulder in a half-apologetic gesture. 

“It helped,” he admitted, stiff and uncomfortable. “A lot. Thank you.”

“You doing okay, Ms. Nessuno?” asked the area lead, poking her head back in. “We got some of the crowd to disperse a little. If you want to just call it a day, you can absolutely—”

“No, no,” said Rey brightly, and Ben suddenly saw that bright, cheery facade snap back into place. “I’m totally fine. Thank you. I’ll stick out the rest of the day. We’ve only got an hour left.”


	2. kintsugi

Rey finished her last autograph, waved goodbye, and helped Finn shut the booth down before picking up her things and heading for the back exit. She purposely slowed her steps, looking around: she told herself it was because she hadn’t had a chance to really look at the convention floor all weekend, but if she happened to see a dark head of long hair moving around above everyone else’s heads…

There was no sign of Ben Solo, though, and she sighed and stepped into the side hall, making her way down the fluorescent-lit carpeted hallway with her security detail. “Thanks,” she said lightly as they reached the automatic glass doors leading to the sidewalk. “I’m fine from here.”

“Have a good night,” said one of them, and waved as they turned and walked back. Rey watched them go, sighed to herself, and stepped out through the doors into the dusk. The wind was blowing, the air was cooler, and she took a deep breath, enjoying the breeze on her neck, even though it was humid.

A scrape of a shoe on concrete alerted her as to the presence of someone else on the sidewalk. She opened her eyes and her heart lurched: Ben Solo was standing there in his black jeans and plaid button-up, eyes wide as he looked at her. “Oh. Hi,” he said. 

Why was her throat so tight? “Hi! I thought— I thought maybe you’d left already.”

“No. I… I thought I’d step out a little early and call my booking agent.” He shifted from foot to foot, and she noticed that his big feet in their black trainers turned in a little, giving him an awkward pigeon-toed stance. “And then I saw you come out, and I thought— I thought maybe I’d offer to walk with you back to the hotel. I know it’s just across the street, but after what you told me…”

Warmth bloomed in her chest, her face, her belly.  _ He’s not too big of an asshole after all.  _ She’d kinda rethought that stance when he’d showed up at her table, but this was… kind of going above and beyond, wasn’t it? “I… yes. I’d like that.”

His face flickered a little, his mouth turning up at the corners. “You want— you want to get some food first?”

Her belly growled, and she remembered she hadn’t had anything to eat since noon and that bibimbap burrito. “Oh, yeah. I’m starving.”

Ben’s face relaxed a little more. “Me too. I think I saw a nice little hole in the wall type of place on the drive back. Come on. My treat.”

* * *

The restaurant was amazing: a tiny little place barely big enough for ten people, an open bar, and rickety tables crammed in all over. Rey sat at the bar, chowing down fries and a chicken salad with a foamy stout at her elbow as Ben attacked a huge plate of rice and grilled fish with lemon. The man ate like he was trying to defeat his own food in mortal combat, and he’d already downed two and a half beers, the third big glass still half-full of a golden IPA.

Rey tried really, really hard to keep her eyes off his mouth and on her own food while they talked, because that  _ mouth: _ that mouth was bringing back the days of homemade folders and fan sites. Plush. Still soft-looking, despite the fact that his face had aged since then, bringing more lines to the corners of his eyes and sculpting out his cheekbones. He’d used to have his hair cut shorter, just to cover the tips of his wide ears, and now it fell softly to below his collar in gently curling dark waves. Was he trying to hide his ears? Was he self conscious about them? Shame, really, if so: there was nothing Rey would like to do more than tuck his hair back behind his ears and—

“So I guess you do this a lot more often than I do,” he said, gulping down more beer. “Convention appearances, I mean.”

“Oh, yeah,” she managed, bringing herself out of la-la-land and back to the present. “Normally about one or two a month if I can swing it. More, if I’m not working, but that hasn’t— I haven’t had that opportunity in a while, which was why so many people showed up this weekend.”

“You must have pretty steady work,” said Ben, eyeing her over the rim of his glass.

“Yeah,” she told him, trying not to grin. “Which is exciting. But it’s exhausting, you know. Never stops. I have to be back in New York next week to work on this audiobook, and while I’m there I have to go to some influencer meetup, and then I have an interview on Colbert—”

Ben didn’t really look at her directly so much as at her left ear. “So why… why do you do this?” He gestured with one big hand helplessly, as if to encompass the bar, the street, the city. “These conventions. If I had that much work lined up I’d be at home trying to unwind in between jobs.”

“Because it… it’s important to people,” she said blankly. “People like what I do, and  _ Galaxy Wars _ means the world to some of these fans who come see me, and if I can talk to them for a second and let them know I care about their favorite thing, that makes their day better. Like… you know, I see a thousand people a day, but each of those people won’t ever meet me again, probably, and it’s  _ big _ for them, so I’ve got to make that memorable. Why do  _ you _ do it?”

He shut his eyes and shook his head from side to side. Rey thought maybe he’d had too much to drink. “I have bills to pay,” he said, eyes bright when he opened them again. “Lawyers aren’t cheap.”

“Oh,” said Rey. “Lawyers for what? Or— am I allowed to ask?” _Is he going through a secret divorce?_

Ben let out a sharp, bitter little noise that might have been an attempt at a laugh. “Medical bills. I had an accident four years ago. Still trying to pay it off.”

Rey gulped down her chicken. “What… what kind of accident?”

“It wasn’t… news, really,” said Ben, rolling his glass around by its base in a small circle. “Director, production company kind of… shut it up, put a lockdown on press releases, started threatening to sue. I think… I think I’m probably still under an NDA about it.”

“Oh— well, you don’t have to tell m—”

He focused on her with sudden intensity. “I’m just going to give you some advice, and you don’t have to listen, but I’ll say it anyway. If you get into film, kid— and I mean, anything on camera, using your body— you, uh, you let the fucking stuntmen do the tricks.” The beer glass sloshed as he used it to gesture, and he raised it to his lips and gulped it down, head tilted back, and she saw the thick, pale throat, marred by a—

A scar. He had a scar: she had barely noticed it but now she saw that it ran from below his right eye to his collar. The bit by his shirt was raised and puckered, discolored, but the line crossing his face was so faint that it might have been entirely invisible under foundation.  _ He’s had plastic surgery, _ she thought in surprise. “I guess those were some bills,” she said instead, not wanting to pry.

“Yeah. Plus I’m paying for my mom’s physical therapy. So.” He shoved the glass to the bar and sighed deeply. “She’s about sixty-three, weighs like a hundred pounds, and broke her hip falling down a flight of stairs last year. It’s not cheap either.”

Rey felt terrible that she’d ever judged him for being here for the money. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Mmm. Not all of us can be… all bubbly like you,” Ben said, massaging his temples with a hand. “God, what time is it?”

“Um.” Rey checked her phone. “About fifteen to eight. You want to go back to the hotel?”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” He heaved himself up off the barstool and got his footing, tossing a fifty on the counter. “They can keep the change. Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

* * *

Ben stepped through the sliding glass doors to the lobby of the Hilton, Rey trotting along at his side. He had to smile at the sight of her hurrying to keep up: she had to take two steps for every one of his, but it didn’t faze her at all. She was bright and cheery even at eight in the evening. He was sure he’d never been that energetic, not even at twenty.  _ What are they feeding these kids these days? _ Optimistic, cute, bubbly: he probably looked like her bodyguard, with his ugly mug and big crooked nose. His head spun a little as he got into the elevator with her: he’d had slightly more beer than he probably should have had on a work night, and made a mental note to drink a glass of water as soon as he got into his room. Uncomfortably, he shifted, and made an amendment to the mental note:  _ after I take a piss.  _

Rey was blinking up at him with those big hazel eyes, those long pretty eyelashes. “What floor are you on?”

“Oh. Uh. Fourteen.”  _ That’s right, isn’t it? Room 1437, executive suite.  _ “What about you?”

“Fourteen, too,” she said, punching the button. “Makes it easier, huh?”

_ Easier? For what? _ He blinked, his brain trying to catch up. “For— oh, for the buttons. You don’t have to press as many.”

“Yeah, and I can walk you to the room so you don’t pass out.” She grinned up at him, and for a moment he forgot he was tipsy, forgot he was working, forgot about everything in his life except that brilliant smile and those bright hazel eyes. 

“I’m… walking you to  _ your _ room,” he said stubbornly.

“No, I think it’s definitely got switched around, because you’ve had a drink or two and now I’m walking you back to yours,” she said, laughing.

_ Laughing! Laughing! She’s laughing! _ It was like fizzy champagne bubbles, like stars, like fireworks soaring as high as the sun. He wanted nothing as much as he wanted to make her laugh again. Ben cracked a smile of his own. “You gonna help me cross the street tomorrow, too? Like a Girl Scout?”

Rey giggled, and it warmed him to his bones:  _ success!  _ “I’ll hold your arm and everything, too.” The elevator dinged softly and the doors parted. “Come on, Grandpa,” she said, and tucked her hand into his elbow as they stepped out.

_ Touching me. She’s touching me.  _ Ben swallowed back a groan: her hand was firm and the heat soaked through his air-conditioning cooled shirt, right down to his skin. He usually only tolerated touching when he had to, and normally after a few drinks he was better about it, but this was— this was— 

His jeans suddenly felt way, way too tight.  _ Fuck.  _ All the blood in his body was seemingly flooding south, and he stumbled, momentarily dizzy as he leaned against the wall, Rey’s hand still gripping his arm. “Mr. Solo?”

_ You’re a fucking pervert. You’re old enough to— well, not be her father, but you look like you probably could be.  _ “I’m fine,” he managed. “Dizzy for a second.”

“Are you going to throw up?” She pulled him to his feet and wriggled between his arm and his body, slinging his arm across her shoulders, and oh, oh no, that was so much worse: her body was firm and lean and wedged so nicely into his side, and Ben honestly could not recall the last time he’d been this close to a woman, bar filming, and even then the last romantic scene he’d filmed had been over four years ago. “Let’s get you to your room.”

“I don’t think so,” he muttered, trying to ignore how pleasant the lithe shoulders tucked under his arm felt. “Just dizzy. Room key’s in my pocket.”

Rey peered at the numbers and dug into his pocket. He closed his eyes, fighting off the horrible thoughts that burned through his brain at the sensation of her fingers rooting through his jeans for his keycard. She found the key, swiped it, and opened his door. Ben stumbled through the door into the entry hall of his executive suite, grappling for the light switches. The door shut behind him, and he heard Rey’s footsteps following him as the lights blazed on, illuminating his room: the tastefully decorated sitting area with its gentle golden lighting, the French doors open wide to show the king-size bed in the other room, the table, the floor-to-ceiling windows that let him see the black silhouettes of buildings, lights glittering on for miles in the heart of the city. 

“This is nice,” said Rey, putting the key on the table. “You want to take your shoes off? Maybe go sit in front of the toilet, in case you… you know?”

“I’m okay,” Ben protested, but took his shoes off anyway, kneading his socked toes into the plush carpet. It felt nice. “I’m not sick. I just have to, um. Use the bathroom.”

“Right,” she said, blushing. “You go do that. I’ll— I’ll just hang around until I’m sure you’re good to go. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, yes,” he said, shuffling off to the bathroom. “Just— make yourself comfortable.” 

* * *

Rey, for lack of a better place, sat gingerly on the edge of Ben Solo’s huge king-size bed, perfectly made up by housekeeping. This place was way bigger than her modestly-sized room: someone must have paid a ton for him to have stayed here. There were even bathrobes hanging on the door.  _ He’s probably used to it. Hollywood big shot, all that.  _ She swung her feet a little and waited, her stomach flipping around nervously. Was he okay? Should she check on him? He’d been a little sweaty, emanating heat like a stove when she’d helped him into the room, his side pressed to hers. Big, and solid, and hot. Rey nibbled her lower lip. 

Water running in the toilet alerted her, and Ben stepped out, slightly disheveled and holding a water glass. “Hey,” he said, setting it aside. “I’ve… drunk some water. I’ll be okay.” His eyes flashed down to look her over, and his mouth fell a little open, lips parted: was he sobering up? 

“Okay,” she replied, slipping off the bed. “I can go, then. Just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Rey.” It was soft, half-afraid, low: her skin rippled with anticipation in a way it hadn’t done in some time. “I just. I wanted you to know I’m sorry. Really. I’m really sorry.”

She turned back. He was looking at her like he was lost, his pleading dark eyes fixed on her, hands open and loose at his sides; as if he was looking for some answer in her face, an answer to a question she didn’t understand. “It’s fine.”

Ben’s mouth kept moving, as if some dam had broken. “I didn’t think about it— until you said what you did about people who like things you do, and how you go out of your way to talk to them because it’s a once in a lifetime thing for them. It’s like… you liked something I did, and I fucked up the whole— interaction, that’s the word. Because I was... I don’t… I…”

“It’s fine,” she assured him. “I shouldn’t have— well, if you have to know, I was grousing to myself about how you were some stuck-up arse only here to make easy money, but— I shouldn’t have thought that, either, because it’s not my business why you need money, and it’s not easy— not for you, especially. Stuff like this.”

“It got worse,” he said. “After the… the accident.” A shadow crossed his already gloomy face, and Rey took a step closer, fighting some urge to smooth the lines away. “Sorry. You don’t… you don’t want to be here with me.” He tried a smile, but it just looked sour. “You’re a kid. Go and… go clubbing or something. A party. There’s a ton of parties going on, aren’t there?”

“I’m not a kid,” she protested. “I’m twenty-three. And I don’t like loud parties.”

“I’m thirty-two in four months,” he said bleakly, stepping over to skirt around her and sit on the bed heavily. His feet spread apart and he rested his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. “I’m just sorry. That’s all I wanted to say. You… you can leave if you want to.”

Rey steadied herself and took the deepest breath she’d ever taken in her life before making her way over to the edge of the bed, standing just in front of his spread knees. “I don’t want to leave,” she said.

Ben looked up slowly, as if he wasn’t sure she was still standing there. “You… don’t?” he asked, in such a puzzled tone that she almost laughed. 

Except now that he was  _ confused _ about it, she thought maybe she shouldn’t try to make a move after all. Rey changed tack. “No. I— I think I should help you, um, get to bed first.”

“Oh,” he said, looking as if he was deflating a little, and wait,  _ wait,  _ no, that wasn’t— “Okay. I’ll just… my shirt.” Ben’s fingers fumbled at the buttons, and Rey made herself useful by picking up his discarded shoes and putting them by the door, coming back to see him tossing the plaid shirt aside to the bench at the foot of the bed. Under it, he wore a short-sleeved black T shirt, and she realized why he had felt so warm: anyone would be sweating their ass off with that many dark layers in this weather. Why was he wearing it? The arms were taut around his massive biceps, and she fought to focus on his face.

“D’you need help with that one, too?” she asked.

“No,” he said shortly, avoiding meeting her eyes as he fumbled with his jeans. His hair hung down in his eyes as he struggled, his fingers thick and clumsy, and Rey had just taken a step toward him to offer help when he got the button and fly undone, wriggling his hips as he yanked them down to his knees. Rey couldn’t tear her eyes away from the pale expanse of both broad thighs, dusted with freckles and sparse dark hair: he had on black boxer-briefs, and as she knelt down automatically to help him shimmy off the jeans, she realized why, maybe, he’d acted so weird in the hall— the black fabric had helped to obscure it a little, but up close there was no denying that Ben Solo was sporting a frankly massive erection, and it was a foot from her face, and her hands were  _ on his pants _ . 

Rey sucked in a small breath and looked up, and he was gazing down at her with his lips parted, his eyes gentle and bewildered above his severe nose and soft-lipped, crooked mouth. “I… I’m sorry,” she stammered, tugging his jeans off his ankles and standing quickly, folding them on instinct, for something to do with her hands. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”  _ He doesn’t want to sleep with you, dummy; you’re like a kid to him. He said so twice, didn’t he?  _

“It’s fine,” said Ben hoarsely. He smelled like damp flannel, like acrid sweat and the cologne he’d probably put on that morning all mixed up. “I’m not. You can— do you want to leave?”

Was he asking her to leave, or asking if she wanted to stay? Rey set the neatly folded jeans on the arm of a nearby chair.  _ No, _ she imagined herself saying,  _ actually I’ve fantasized about a situation like this for probably half a decade, and now you’re not completely sober and you’re sad and tired and you think I’m just a kid. _ “Do you… want to shower?” she said instead, trying to deflect. 

“I should,” he mumbled, passing his hand over his eyes. “I can do that myself. I mean, if you wanted to help, you—” Something shifted across his face: was that expression despair, or self-loathing, or was he maybe just about to puke? “Forget it. I— I’ll go shower.”

“Oh. Okay.” Rey watched him as he opened the drawers to the hotel dresser and took out a clean pair of boxer-briefs and another T-shirt (no living out of suitcases for this man, it seemed) and stepped into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. After a moment, she heard the water sputter to life, and the curtain rake aside on the metal bar. Rey relaxed a little, sighing, and entertained herself by wandering the room and looking at the furniture, the view outside of the night city, the flowing curtains that wafted a little in the air-conditioning. The water shut off, and after a minute or two the door opened and Ben stepped out.

The first thing Rey thought was  _ I think that shirt is too small for him _ and the second thing was  _ oh god, oh god,  _ because he was damp and clean and his legs poking out of the boxer-briefs were absolutely massive: pale in contrast to the dark gray fabric, spattered with freckles and moles. “Hey,” he said roughly, running a hand through his damp hair. “I lived, I guess.”

She cracked a grin. “Yes, you have survived the perils of navigating the shower while a bit sloshed. Want me to tuck you in?”

“You…” He shut his eyes, going very red, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled. “Oh, Jesus. You said  _ tuck _ , not— not—”

“Oh!” Rey felt her face flood with heat as her belly wriggled around in nervous anticipation. “I— I did say tuck. Didn’t I? I mean— it’s entirely possible I didn’t, and made a bit of a Freudian slip—”

Ben snorted. “It’s only a Freudian slip if it reflects subconscious desires.”

“Yes, that’s—” Rey almost choked. “That’s what I— yes. That’s why I would have said it.”

He froze. Just… froze, staring at her, the twitching muscle under his left eye the only moving thing on his body as he just stood there for so long that Rey, red-faced, began to think she’d misread the whole situation, that the best thing to do would be to leave instantly, to just teleport into her own room down the hall  _ now. _ “I—”

At the same time, Ben stuttered out, “You—”

They both laughed nervously, exchanging cautious glances. “Sorry,” Rey said, looking at the floor, at the ceiling, at the wall: anywhere but at that massive chest and broad body. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I— I can go, if you w—”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I— just didn’t expect… that.”

“Oh, God,” moaned Rey, crushing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “That’s what I— I’m sorry, really I am. You don’t— you probably have some girlfriend in Los Angeles or New York or something, and I’m just— to you I’m probably a  _ baby _ .”

“I don’t,” he said, tight and low, his eyes darting back and forth from her face to the carpet. “Have a girlfriend, I mean.”

“Oh.” Rey took her hands down. “Not… not even, like, a casual—”

“No. I don’t… I don’t really do casual.”

Oh,  _ great. _ Rey felt her throat tighten up. “Right. Got it. I’ll just— I’ll go. I’m so sorry.”

“What…” He stood there, his hands working against his thighs, watching her helplessly as she gathered her things and headed back out to the lounge area: she could barely bring herself to look at him as he tailed her there, seemingly at a loss as to why she was leaving, and  _ why _ was he looking at her like a big sad puppy, with those soft brown eyes and overlarge hands and ears? Hadn’t he just said he didn’t do casual? “Rey.”

“Please,” she managed, ears as hot as fire, “please don’t— think any worse of me than I’m sure you already do.”

“I don’t. At all.” The words were soft, almost careful, and she stopped in her tracks, turning and looking at Ben, who was still standing there and looking at her like he didn’t know why she was leaving. “I think you’re great. I think you’re… nice, and sweet. And— and pretty.”

_ Pretty. He called me pretty.  _ Heat flooded her, head to toe: Ben Solo had just called her  _ pretty. _ “Oh,” she managed.

“And— and a much better person than I am,” he continued. “So if you want to leave, I understand. I’m not… I’m not good like you.”

“I…” Rey let her voice trail off in confusion, and decided that being blunt was going to have to be the best approach here. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I said I had a subconscious desire to— to stay here, and, um, you know. Do… things. And you said you didn’t do casual and you didn’t have a girlfriend, so I— I assume that means you don’t want me to stay.”

Ben’s mouth fell open. “Oh.  _ Oh. _ No, no. I— I was saying, I meant that I…” He exhaled hard and shifted his weight a little, rolling his shoulders as if gearing up to give a speech. “I don’t have a girlfriend or a wife or anything like that because my life’s already complicated and hectic enough without adding someone else into it. I don’t do casual because I’m not… when I say  _ casual _ I mean someone I just met two minutes ago at a party, or a— an event. I don’t… there’s not enough of a connection for me to be attracted to someone if I’ve only known them for half an hour.” His dark, gentle eyes snapped to hers, and she felt as if she was being held in place by a force like gravity or magnetism, like she might fly off the earth if he stopped looking at her. “You… this… you wouldn’t be casual. Not to me.”

“I wouldn’t,” she managed to echo, mouth feeling numb. 

“No. But you— you’re leaving. And that’s okay. That’s…” He sighed, his shoulders sagging a little. “Expected. I’m ten years older than you. I’m...an asshole.”

“Eight years,” she corrected, stepping toward him. “I’m twenty-three, you’re thirty-one. Technically seven and change, since I’m twenty-four in a week and you don’t turn thirty-two till, what, the fall—”

“Rey,” he protested, sounding tired. “You don’t have to try to make me feel better.”

“I’m not. You  _ are  _ a decent man.”

“Decent,” Ben said, as if he’d just been told a bad joke. “Yeah. Sure. Listen, Rey. I… people get ideas in their heads of what people are like when they’re in a… kind of a parasocial relationship with them through their work, and I don’t… I just don’t want you to be disappointed. I’m...I’m not the guy you probably remember from magazine spreads and interviews. That was— a long time ago.”

“I’m not,” she insisted. “I’d rather have the real person over some polished up PR-manufactured image.”

“Ah,” he said, eyes flickering back and forth across her face as she stepped closer. “And there we have it: the true heart of your dislike for public relations releases.”

“Shut up,” she said, half-smiling. “You said boundaries were healthy. But too many just… wall you off, you know, from people who care about you.”

Ben shut his eyes, and she was shocked to see tears seeping from under the lids: she must have brushed a nerve. “I know,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” She reached up with both thumbs to brush away the wetness leaking from his eyes, and he went very still under her touch. 

“I haven’t had sex in six years,” he choked out, her hand still resting on his cheek, and there it was, hanging in the empty room between them for her to see. “I don’t… I don’t know if it’ll be good for you. I want it to be. I want…” He closed his eyes again, his lips trembling, and Rey felt her heart swell and burst and break all at once for this man, this man she felt like had a hundred layers she could not penetrate, this man she felt like she still  _ knew _ . 

“That’s okay. It’s okay. Hey.” She stroked the hair out of his face, and he took a little breath, turning his face into her palm, nudging her fingers with his nose as he let out a soft, shaky breath, and  _ oh, _ that was nice. “I don’t care if it’s the worst sex I’ve ever had, okay? And I doubt it’s going to be, because I don’t think you can top the absolute worst sex I’ve ever had.”

Ben looked at her for a moment, and then his face broke into the sunniest, sweetest smile she’d ever seen: big crooked teeth, dimples, the lines at the corners of his eyes furrowing into crinkles: it took years off his face. “Okay,” he whispered. “I… do you want to use the shower? Or…”

“I want to wash my face,” she said, beaming at him: her heart was thumping in her chest like a drum, and splashing cold water on her cheeks might just calm her down. “I’ll… I’ll see you in the bedroom, then?”

“Yes. Yeah. Bedroom.” He stepped back, and she hurried past him, back into the bedroom and the bathroom, where she shut the door behind her and exhaled hard, looking at her reflection. 

Oh, God. She’d forgotten about the mascara and she’d rubbed her eyes out there, shit. Black specks and smudges made her look like a hungover raccoon, and she quickly snatched up a towel and washcloth, wetting it and scrubbing at her face. The warm water felt nice, and by the time she’d rinsed and patted her face dry, she felt like she was ready to take on anything. Rey lifted her arm and sniffed, and made a face: stale sweat mixed with her deodorant was not a very sexy smell. She soaped up the cloth again, took off her blouse, and scrubbed her pits, washing them off and patting them dry, then hanging the towels and wrung-out washcloths up to dry on the towel bar.  _ Should I put my shirt back on? He’ll just take it off, anyway.  _ Rey chewed her lip: her bra was just a nude lace bandeau, nothing really sexy at all, unless you counted the lace.  _ Why didn’t I wear a push-up bra? _ She sighed: the blouse reeked of a day’s worth of deodorant and sweat, so there was nothing for it. Tan trousers and her nude bra it was. 

Rey pushed the door open and came face to face with Ben, standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor, clothes still on. He looked at her chest and blushed so deeply she wondered for a moment if he was going to have a stroke. “Oh,” he stuttered. 

She felt like she should explain, and pointed back at the bathroom. “I— the blouse was dirty, so—”

“No, no, it’s fine. Fine.” Ben cleared his throat. “Can you, um.” He sat down on the edge of the bed suddenly, as if he’d forgotten what to do with himself. “Come… over here.”

Rey walked over and stood just in front of his broad knees, waiting: her skin prickled with anticipation. “I’m. I’ve got— I’m on the pill. In case you wanted to know.”

His big, careful hand shook a little as he reached for the tie on her trousers. “Okay. I— I have a hard time finding condoms that fit, so. That’s. Good. And I’m clean…”

_ A hard time finding condoms that fit?  _ Rey swallowed convulsively, her mouth and throat suddenly dry as a desert as he gently tugged on the tie, loosening the waistband, and undid the fastenings. Her trousers dropped, and he stared at her gray cotton bikini briefs like they were the world’s most expensive lingerie. “I guess, um, if you haven’t had to buy any in six years…”

Ben looked up at her. “Huh,” he said, and smiled lightly. 

“What?” she asked. Did she have soap on her ear or something?

“Nothing. Just— your freckles. I can see them now. They're nice.”

She flushed: her freckles? He had noticed her freckles? He thought they were _nice._ But there wasn’t any time to ruminate on that: his knuckles were skimming across the elastic band of her underwear, as if he was testing the give of her body. One big hand traced across her hipbone and cupped it gently, and the heel of his hand touched her hip while the pads of his fingers rested on her cotton-covered ass.  _ Why are his hands so fucking big. Why.  _ Rey stepped closer, into the bracket of his spread knees, and he jerked up a little, like she’d startled him— she opened her mouth to apologize, but he’d already adapted, and leaned in, pressing his mouth lightly to her stomach, the smooth, taut skin below her bra. 

It shouldn’t have turned her on. It was a perfectly dry, ordinary kiss: a kiss someone might give to a grandparent or a baby or a cat, and yet it was  _ doing things _ to her body, making her press her thighs together.  _ Oh, god. What am I gonna do if he uses his tongue? _ “Mr. Solo—”

“Don’t call me that,” he muttered against her skin. “Ben. Just call me Ben.”

“O-okay, Ben,” she panted, and forgot what she’d been about to ask him to do. “Can I. Can I take your shirt off?”

“No,” he said flatly, and dived back in to press more kisses along her ribcage, making her squirm and shudder.  _ Okay, _ she wanted to say,  _ okay, that’s fine: can I at least get my hands under it? Touch you? Make you feel what you’re making me feel?  _ But he kept kissing her and she couldn’t do anything but cling to his head softly, the strands of his hair pouring through her fingers like silk as his mouth lit her body on fire. 

“I w-want, I want you to touch me,” she managed, stroking his hair. “Can—”

“Yeah,” he growled, and his big hand came down, rubbing gently over the now-damp fabric covering her body, the twin folds of her labia swollen, his fingertip finding the little valley between them, then stroking up, thumbing at her clit. Rey yelped and thrust her hips closer towards his hand, seeking the pressure blindly as she squeezed her eyes shut and clung to his hair. “Easy,” he whispered, and she thought for a wild second that maybe she could come just like this, with Ben Solo’s fingers rubbing her and his deep, soft voice muttering into her skin. “Shh, sh-sh. I’ve got you. Are you— you’re wet? You’re wet. Shh. Wet for me, huh?”

She couldn’t help it: she needed more touching. She let go of his hair and took off her bra, flinging it across the room with shaking fingers, and he looked up at her tits with something verging on religious awe. “Can you please just, just, touch them,” she begged, and he leaned forward, giving the underside of her right breast an experimental lick, ending it on the nipple, which rose up to his touch, pebbled and taut. “ _ Yeah _ , just—”

“Jesus Christ,” he said roughly, and started working. His tongue was wet and hot and smooth, and she clutched at his shoulders, fighting to not moan too loudly as he nibbled at her skin, bit gently, licked in long wet stripes, and sucked gently at her nipple. His left hand found its way up and clumsily worked at her other breast, but his thumb and fingers were no match for that plush mouth and tongue. Rey felt like she was off-balance, all her arousal concentrated on the right side of her body, flushed and hot, but thank fuck, he seemed to understand, and lifted his mouth off her to go after her left tit. She gasped when his teeth grazed her skin, but he was gentle,  _ so _ gentle, soft and tender as he kneaded and lifted and licked and sucked. 

When he was done, he released her nipple with a soft  _ pop, _ and she shivered: the cold air of the bedroom felt even colder on her wet breasts, the nipples both standing up hard. Ben wore a slightly dazed look, as if her skin had been more intoxicating than the beers he’d had earlier, and his mouth was red and swollen and wet. She wanted to kiss him. “Can I— can I kiss y—”

“Yes,” he panted, and she bent down, crushing her mouth to his. There wasn’t any finesse to it, and he kissed her like he didn’t know how, clumsy and tentative. She cupped his cheek and guided him a little, slowing it down: mouth opening, then closing, tongue exploring his plush bottom lip— and he got it, copied her movements, even caught at her lip with his teeth once or twice, experimenting. Learning. Rey moaned her appreciation, and he sighed, a low, dark sound, before bringing his hands up to splay out across her back, bringing her closer. 

Rey straddled his lap, knees on the bed, and pressed herself closely to him: her core was nudging against a very warm,  _ very _ thick erection, straining against the thin fabric of his gray boxer-briefs. Ben groaned, helpless and lost, into her mouth, and she stroked his shoulder in long, careful movements as his hands shook on her skin. He broke the kiss first, gasping. 

“It’s okay—” she managed to get out before he spoke.

“God.  _ God _ , I feel like I could come just— just with you here, just like—” He canted his hips a little, rubbing himself along the soft heat centered between her thighs, and both of them groaned. “Jesus  _ f-fuck _ ,” Ben gasped out.

Rey tried to get her thoughts in order. “You. You have a really— a big— a—”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, a little less breathily. She reached down to feel at him, and he grabbed her wrist with the speed of light, ripping his hand from her back. “ _ Don’t _ .”

“Okay.” She waited, calm and patient, until he let go of her, his breath shuddering. “Better?”

“Yeah,” said Ben, sounding strained. “Sorry. I… I’m not gonna last, I don’t think.”

“That’s okay,” she reassured him, tucking a strand of hair back. “Really. It’s fine.”

“I…” Ben shut his eyes and breathed deep, stroking the pads of his blunt fingers lightly up her bare back, “swear to God, thought I was going to come just kissing your tits.”

Rey tried  _ so hard  _ not to think about him wrecked and coming in his pants underneath her without being touched. She really did try. “Well, it’s been a bit for you,” she said, voice slightly higher than it normally was, “so I don’t blame you. What— what do you want to do?”

Ben leaned in and took a deep, even breath. “I want to— I want to eat you out,” he muttered, as if embarrassed. 

Rey tried to hide her disappointment: every single time someone tried to eat her out it never ended well on her end. Usually she had to fake an orgasm, because guys did  _ not _ like being told they were doing something wrong, and laying on her back counting the dots on the ceiling while someone insisted her vagina would get something out of a tongue jammed up it was  _ not _ her idea of a good time. Maybe Ben would take criticism better… or maybe not.  _ Ugh. _ “Okay,” she said quickly, reaching down to get her briefs off. “I’ll just—”

“I’ll take them off you,” he said in low, dark tones, and goosebumps crept up her arms. “Here. Lie down. On your back.”

Well, she could put up with some fumbling, she guessed, especially if it was Ben and his big hands doing it. Rey let him lay her down, her knees apart, and he swung his body over, settling between her shins. He didn’t go for her underwear, though: he started kissing her inner thighs. Rey fought a little sigh and let the shivers wash over her again as he drifted back and forth from leg to leg, taking his sweet time, curling his fingers around the outside of her thigh and pulling them open a little more, drawing closer to her body, closer,  _ closer… _

And he skipped right over her underwear and started using his lips and tongue along the elastic of her briefs.  _ What? No. Go back.  _ “Hey,” she protested weakly, her heartbeat pounding through her cunt, wet and hot and ready. “Wrong— wrong target.”

“No, this is right,” he assured her, absurdly soft, deepset eyes glancing up at her under those brows as he looked up. His mouth quirked up at the corner, and she realized he knew, and furthermore— “You just have to be patient.”

She opened her mouth to make a scathing remark, but forgot it as his thumb lightly traced her through her underwear, the outline of her labia showing through below. “Oh,  _ god, _ ” she spluttered, jerking her hips up. “Just—”

“Ah-ah. Wait.” Ben bent again to his task, very businesslike, and Rey clapped a hand over her mouth: why wasn’t he just fucking getting it over with? Why drag it out like this? Her whole body was trying to bear down on something that wasn’t there, that  _ should _ be there— it would be worth it just to get that cock inside her for three seconds, she didn’t care if he came on the first thrust, she just wanted— “Shh,” said Ben, from where he was hooking a finger into her briefs. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Please,” she begged, half-incoherent with how fucking turned on she was, how much she wanted him. “Please, Ben, please—”

He tugged her underwear down and off, settling back in and pressing more kisses to the crease of her thigh, where they met her body: Rey dizzily tried to remember if she’d shaved recently but decided it didn’t matter. “Shh,” he breathed against her tender, hot skin. “Shh.” Another kiss, this one wet and open  _ just _ above her clit, and Rey couldn’t take it: she gripped his hair and tried to shove herself against his face. 

“ _ Ben, please please please— _ ”

Inexorable hands held her down, and she whimpered, actually  _ whimpered _ . “Trust me,” he said, and kissed her again, to the right, just above,  _ just _ barely enough pressure. This had never happened. Not ever in the history of Rey and her sexual adventures, which had admittedly not been  _ that _ far-reaching, had this happened: she had never begged a man to eat her out. “You’ll come. Not, I mean... you know, if you can't from this, you'll come another way. I promise you I’m not that big of an asshole.”

Rey let out a strangled little laugh, her hands shaking as he pressed another kiss to the left and above. “If you don’t touch me right  _ now _ I might not—”

Ben didn’t let her finish before he laid the flat of his tongue directly on her clit and dragged, licking upward. Rey’s breath left her body, her mouth opened wide, and she made the unsexiest sound she’d probably ever made in her life, her thighs as tense as coils as the ridiculous string of gibberish resolved into “ _ Ben Ben Ben Ben holy fucking shit—”  _ He absolutely _delved_ in, devouring her. Tongue, lips, all: Rey lay on her back and just took it and took it, shuddering, unbelievably feeling her rhythm start to build.  _ Good old familiar orgasm! Haven’t seen you coming like this before, let’s go for a ride. _ “Oh, f-fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ —”

He did not go faster, or slow down, or try something different like so many other men did when informed that a climax was impending. Ben simply did exactly as he had been doing, moaning into her skin, his nose rubbing across her, his fingers gripping her thighs so she couldn’t smother him, and Rey had no choice but to ride it out, straight to the peak and over the top until sparks glittered behind her eyes and her orgasm slammed into her like a train, taking her out with what felt like a fireworks display up her spine, her body tensing, her back arching as she roared out her release into the room. Noises were exploding out of her throat, guttural and raw; noises she had never heard herself make, or even known she  _ could  _ make, and after all the energy drained away, she flopped down, lifeless on the bed, her body turned to jelly. 

“We’re not done yet,” said Ben, from very, very far away. She moaned and turned her head, seeking the source of the voice, and found him standing by the bed, pressing his palm to his cock through his boxer-briefs, his eyes fixed on her. When he spoke, he sounded shaky. “Fuck. Do you have any idea how gorgeous you look?”

Rey struggled to hoist herself up on her elbow and remembered she could speak. “Do  _ you  _ have any idea— nobody’s ever made me come like that before.”

His lips parted and a pink, pleased flush spread across his face as he looked away, almost shy. “Really. Hmm.”

“Can I please take your clothes off now?” she begged, sitting up. 

The flush faded. Ben stepped back, uncertain suddenly, eyes downcast. “I…”

She couldn’t stand to see him looking like that: like he was afraid. He shouldn’t be afraid of anything: a man who could eat pussy like that deserved to be absolutely fucking fearless. “I don’t care what it is,” Rey blurted out. “You said you had an accident, and I can— I could see the scar on your neck, a little. I don’t care if everything under that shirt looks like Deadpool. I don’t care. I _won’t_ care. Pinky promise.” She held up her right pinky extended, wiggling it invitingly.

Ben swallowed, eyes still fixed on the carpet. “It’s not Deadpool,” he said, trying to inject some artificial humor into his voice. “But it’s not pretty, either. You… you’re sure you don’t want me to just, um. Leave it on?”

Rey narrowed her eyes. “I bloody well do not want you to leave it on. I don’t fancy having intimate relations with Winnie-the-Pooh.”

Ben turned red and burst into laughter, covering his eyes with his hand. “Oh, God. Fine. You asked for it, though.” He turned his back to her, and she watched his shoulders settle as he pulled the shirt off over his head by the collar, exposing a wide-shouldered, thickly built, deeply muscled pale back dotted with moles… and a discolored, old mark the size of her fist by his right shoulder. She recognized what it was, because she’d had a similar one on her right calf for five years after she’d been in a fender bender: it was a deep, deep tissue bruise, the dark mark old congealed blood that hadn’t been absorbed back into his body yet. 

He turned slowly, eyeing her as he did so, watching for her reaction. Rey kept her face still as the full landscape of his bare body came into view. Scars on his arms, a thick ugly rope of a scar on his collarbone, craters of rough tissue at his shoulder and waist.  _ Some accident, _ she thought, sympathy filling her as she slid off the bed and took a step, coming to stand by him. He did not move this time, not a single inch as she raised her hand and gently traced the puckered, hard flesh at his waist. “They don’t hurt anymore?”

“No,” said Ben, eyes transfixed on her face, almost in disbelief as she ran her hand by each and every mark, exploring them touching them, and then lightly moved up, past his right nipple (and he shivered when she touched him there, though she pretended not to see it) and to the ropy furrow of a scar that slashed through the thinner skin at his collarbone, up to his neck, where it faded into the almost nothingness that was the scar on his face. “You… they don’t freak you out?”

“No,” she said honestly, tracing the hair-thin line with her finger. “They’re… interesting. Before… I remember those shirtless shoots, back when you were… god, twenty-four? Then you looked nice, but just like every other actor. Now you’ve got, like... a story on your skin.” Ben caught his breath in a ragged clutch, and to her shock she realized he was crying, big fat tears dripping down his cheeks and off his chin. “Oh, oh— I’m so sorry, was it something I—”

“I didn’t know it would f-feel like this,” he stammered, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Someone… someone doing this. Touching me. Being… being kind.”

“Well, I intend to do a lot more than be kind,” she told him, reaching up and stroking his hair back out of his face. “If you’re up for it, I mean.”

“Oh, God, yes,” he muttered, cupping her face in his hands and pressing his forehead to hers. He had to bend down a little to reach her face, but he stood there, just touching her for a moment, eyes half shut. “Go to the bed. I’ll be quick.”

Rey kissed his cheek and went back over, getting a comfortable spot while he crossed over to the nightstand and took out a bottle of KY before pulling his shorts down, and— 

“Oh, shit,” she said, half-strangled as the full situation in his pants became extremely apparent. “That’s. Um.”  _ Big _ didn’t begin to cover it, and she could see why he had trouble finding condoms— or,  _ had _ had trouble, six years ago: there were decent brands now that made products that could probably fit someone his size. He looked like he was so thick she might not be able to come close to closing her hand around him. Ben, meanwhile, oblivious to her inner panic, was slicking himself up with a generous dollop of lube, and yeah, okay, if  _ his _ fingers barely closed around his own cock, her pussy was going to need a warmup, a stretch, and possibly a bottle of water before this workout. 

Ben crossed over and knelt over her, straddling her thigh, and Rey’s throat tensed: he was  _ really big,  _ all of him was, and maybe— maybe— “You…” He faltered a moment. “What, um, position do you like?”

Rey tried to remember every single Cosmo article she could remember about having sex with dicks the size of forearms. There was not a lot of material to draw on. “Um. Uh. Maybe— maybe for you, uh, you kneel and I can kind of sit on your lap. Or maybe I can be on my stomach, and you can, um, do it from the back?”

“Oh. So like…” He frowned, thinking, and maneuvered her gently to her belly, throwing one thigh over hers and gripping her ass with a hand as he let his lube-slicked fingers prod gently at her core, and oh,  _ yeah, _ this was gonna work out just fine. Rey relaxed, humming softly as he warmed her up, spread her slick around, thrust a couple fingers in, careful and firm. She raised her ass up a little, giving him a better view for access, and Ben sighed, touching her all the way up the backs of her thighs, thumb slipping into her. She groaned: his fingers were big. “Hope you’re ready,” he mumbled, withdrawing his wet fingers, “‘cause I think I might explode if I don’t get inside you in the next three seconds.”

“Oh, fuck,” she panted, and gripped the sheets as he pressed the blunt, thick head of his cock against her opening, the lube easing the way and, incredibly, letting him slip into her with some resistance, but nothing painful. He felt like he was sliding against every nerve she owned and then some on the way in. “ _ Fuck _ .”

“That’s… what I’m trying to do,” he gritted out between his teeth, and she laughed breathlessly. What a  _ dork _ . “Just, just. Oh, shit,  _ shit _ . You’re so fucking good, so close and hot and  _ wet _ .”

Rey managed a whine in answer as finally, finally he bottomed out, hips pressed to her ass, and she groaned: he felt like if they’d chosen any other position he’d be bumping her cervix, which would  _ not _ have been pleasant: he already felt like he was interfering with her lung capacity and she had a slight cramp. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, trying to suss out the source of the cramp, and felt  _ him, _ shockingly, the slight press of something very solid under the skin, something that _definitely_ did not belong to her. “Oh, holy God,” she forced out, slightly shocked. “Ben. Ben, your fucking cock’s— it’s—”

Ben sounded baffled. “Are you—” She pushed down firmly, and he groaned behind her, feeling the pressure of her hand through her body, his voice going from low and rough to high-pitched and panicked. “Oh,  _ shit, _ shit; don’t do that, I—  _ fuck  _ that's _tight_ . ”

“You’re gonna break my f-fucking pelvis,” Rey gasped, thinking  _ hey, not a bad way to die: fucked to death by Ben Solo’s monster dong.  _

He sounded almost panicky in his scramble to reassure her. “No. I’m gonna be s-so careful, Rey, careful with you; look, just like this,” and he rolled his hips, gentle and slow, dragging along every lush nerve, every single place inside her. Rey choked, scrabbling at the duvet at how  _ good _ it felt. She couldn’t really say they were made for each other, because he was still not fitting exactly and bordering on painful fullness inside her body, but it was working, and she could handle that. Ben was surprisingly vocal, one hand trembling its way up her back to find a place planted in her hair, his other hand on her hip, guiding her with firm movements, his cock slotting in and out with obscenely wet, slippery sounds. “Ah-ah, oh, fuck,  _ fuck.  _ Y-you’re so tight. Good. Fucking wet, s-so fucking  _ w-wet _ , probably the lube but—”

“No, that’s me, I’m definitely wet,” she choked out, reedy and strained. She desperately wanted his hand on her clit, because coming around this cock would be absolutely heavenly and suddenly it was all she could think about. “C-can you rub, rub my, rub— _ touch me _ —”

“Oh, shit, right,” he panted, and untangled his hand from her hair, reaching around under her body and fumbling at her clit. Sparks jetted through her thighs, building somewhere in her belly, and Rey groaned, low and deep. “Like that?”

“Yes, like that— little bit, little faster—”

He sped up his fingers, and Rey groaned again, louder, her eyes rolling back in her head as constant jolting shocks of  _ good good good _ darted through her, pressure building, she was going to come again and it was going to be—

Ben’s voice was pitching higher and more ragged as he babbled. “Rey, Rey,  _ fuck _ , you’re so good, so, so—” He dropped her hip, planting his free hand up by her shoulder, and let out a groan as he thrust a little more roughly, teetering on the edge of control, and Rey  _ lost it. _ She shrieked into the bed, her hand grasping his— the one by his shoulder— and gushed out her release, teeth bared, eyes squeezed shut as her second climax flooded her like a tsunami, a wave, a disaster; something that was going to consume her, eat her alive—

Rey swiveled her head, gasping, and heard Ben give a helpless little whine before his hips slowed, went erratic, and warmth burst through her sore body: he was groaning and coming inside her, and she thought distantly,  _ well, there’s one hell of a way to spend a Saturday worknight. _

His heavy body came down on her back, but he shifted at the last second to avoid crushing her under his weight. Ben lay down on his stomach beside her as she rolled to her side, trying to get her breathing back to normal: his cock slipped from her body, and she felt the oozy warm stickiness that urged her to get up, go to the toilet, clean up… but she couldn’t be bothered at the moment, not with Ben’s arm draped across her waist and his big nose buried in her shoulder, cuddling her as his breaths went from ragged to deep and even, his sleepy eyes blinking. Their bodies began to cool in the air conditioning, and Rey shivered, huddling closer. He hummed somewhere in his throat and pulled her in, his chin resting on her head. 

When Ben finally spoke, he sounded heavy and soft as gold. “Sorry it was so fast.”

Rey smiled into his warm chest. “It was perfect. Don’t worry about it.”

“So, now you have to tell me,” he said and she blinked, frowning: what did she have to tell him? “What  _ was  _ the worst sex you ever had?”

“Oh, God,” she said, laughing and shaking her head as he grinned down at her. “It was just— so I met this guy on Tinder, right, like three years ago, and we meet up, work out the particulars of all the protection or whatever.” She rolled to her back to gesture more easily, and Ben watched her. “So. He starts trying to  _ instantly _ put it in me, doesn’t even bother with foreplay, and couldn’t find my vagina. Keeps insisting my bum is my vagina. I keep saying look, mate, I know where my arsehole is and I know where the baby chute is and  _ you are not correct. _ Doesn’t listen, gets mad, gets embarrassed, loses his hard-on, and pouts for a solid half hour before I give up and call an Uber home, and he won't even pay for that.  _ Then _ , he calls a week later asking can we try again. Totally shameless. I said no, of course, and he called me a slut. Good times.” She dropped her hands to her chest and turned her head to grin at Ben. “Like I said. You absolutely can’t top that.”

Ben snorted. “Jesus. No, I don’t think I could top that if I tried.”

“Told you so,” she said, and leaned over to kiss the tip of his nose before sitting up and stretching: her quads would  _ definitely _ be feeling this workout tomorrow. “I better head back to my room.”

He sat up, leaning on his elbow as he watched her gather up her underwear and pants. “Do you have to?” he asked, a little plaintively.

“I mean. Unless you want me using your toothbrush.” She shot him a grin. “And all my clean clothes are in my suitcase.”

Ben’s eyes, heavy-lidded and sleepy, swept over her. “How about you just, uh. Go get your clothes and stuff and stay over?”

“Ooh, scandalous.” She winked at him. “Okay. I’ll go get my stuff. Don’t fall asleep.”

* * *

All the air left his chest the second his door clicked shut behind her. Ben sat up, legs still wobbly, and dragged his hands down his face: he’d just  _ had sex with _ a co-guest. A beautiful, gorgeous, freckled co-guest with eyes like stars and a laugh like soda pop and a toned, slim, strong little body; who called him Mr. Solo, who was  _ kind  _ and  _ generous  _ and  _ smart. _

He limped to the bathroom and washed himself off, putting his boxer-briefs back on. Muscles that hadn’t been used in a long time were aching a little, so Ben stretched, shaking out his shoulders, and glanced at himself in the mirror. There was some red marks on his chest where he’d been rubbing against her body, friction searing a flush into his pale skin, and his eyes were tired, satisfied: he looked… he looked more different than he thought he’d ever looked, or at least, had looked in some time. 

_ Too many boundaries will wall you off from people who care about you. _ A lump swelled in his throat: he thought about his father, estranged for years, who still tried to call him every Christmas and birthday. He thought about his uncle Luke, who’d tried to sign him under his own talent agency and the fight that had started— his dad’s best friends, who had been like uncles to him when he was a kid. How long had it been since he’d seen Uncle Lando?  _ Orlando, _ he remembered Mom correcting gently, and Uncle Lando’s big white smile as he crouched down to ruffle Ben’s hair:  _ nah, Leia, he can call me Lando.  _ He’d been… four. Three? Too young to say three syllable names correctly. Last he heard, Calrissian was running a casino in Vegas, but that was years ago. He would be in his eighties by now. He might have… he might...

_ I should call them. All of them.  _ He made his way back out to the bedroom and picked his phone up, thumb tapping automatically at the contacts icon, and hovering over his father’s name. It was nine o’clock. Han would still be up. He could do it. Just tap the name.  _ Just tap it, you coward, _ he thought, and the door opened, Rey darting in with a little bag and a smile.

“Hi! I’ll just leave this in the— are you all right?”

“I,” he started, and realized he had no idea what to say. “I was, um. Going to call my dad.”

She blinked, and her little chin tilted up, as if taking it in. “Oh. I can— I’ll go to the other room—”

“Can you, actually— stay here? Just for a second.” He looked away, ashamed, but she sat down, one small hand resting on his bare knee as Ben took a deep breath and tapped the button so fast he had no time to change his mind.  _ Anchor, she’s an anchor. Holding me here, holding me.  _

The phone rang three times, and Ben started hoping it would go to voicemail, but then it clicked, and a gruff voice more familiar to him than his own said, “ _ Han’s Garage, we’re closed right now, but how can I help ya?” _

Ben could barely get words out. He sucked in a breath, tears filling his eyes. “Dad,” he said, voice cracking, lips trembling, and brought his free hand down to grip Rey’s fingers.

“ _ Ben?” _ Han’s voice lightened, sounding suddenly younger, not so gravelly around the edges. “ _ Ben, is that you, kid?” _

He shut his eyes. “Yeah, it’s me. I know it's been a couple of years.” Rey squeezed his fingers warmly, and he held onto her hand like it was the only thing keeping him on the floor.

“ _ You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you? Are you— are you checking up on the money? Your mom says she’s still getting it. Where in the hell are you?” _

“I’m fine,” Ben managed. “I’m— I’m at this convention in Orange City, down in the South. I just— I just wanted to call you. How’s Uncle Lando?”

The noise Han made on the other end was either gruff disbelief or a laugh: Ben couldn’t tell which. “ _ Lando’s fine, kid. Younger every day. Still raking in profits from Cloud City Casino.” _

“Good,” Ben choked. “That’s good.” Something inside his chest was snapping back into place, healing, coming together. Rey’s thumb was stroking the back of his knuckles. “Dad… I…”

“ _ I know, _ ” said his father gently. “ _ Tell you what. Next time you’re in the area, you drop by for a beer. Place hasn’t moved. _ ”

Ben cracked a smile through the tears on his cheeks. “Yeah? You still trying to smoke that raccoon out from under the machine shed?”

Han’s laugh was soft like old leather around the edges, and Ben thought if he closed his eyes and tried hard enough, he could smell his father: engine oil, metal, smoke. “ _ You’ll have to find out. I’ll see you around, kid.” _

“Bye, Dad,” Ben said, and waited until the line had clicked shut before putting his own phone down and letting out a ragged, deep breath. Rey put a hand on his back and made little shushing noises as he dissolved into tears on the expensive carpet, burying his forehead in the crook of her neck.

* * *

Bee ran pell-mell through the convention floor. Sundays were supposed to be  _ less _ crazy than Saturdays, not  _ more: _ both Rey Nessuno and Ben Solo hadn’t showed up yet, it was ten-thirty and Ms. Nessuno was due for a photo op, while Mr. Solo needed to be at his table. There was a line packing the floor there, and poor Rose was trying to keep everyone calm, and of course nobody had walkie-talkies except the goddamn leads, so it fell to the volunteers to sprint like Usain Bolt from section to section to pass along information.

She landed back at the StarPhoto booth. “Still nothing,” she panted to Maz, who shook her head, sighing. “I’m so sorry. Nobody’s seen them. I—”

“Wait,” said Kay, looking down at her phone. “Someone got a photo of them and posted it to Twitter! They’re in the Starbucks across the street in the Hilton…” She scrolled, her thumb flicking up. “Oh, someone asked them where they were. They know they’re late, they’re hurrying— looks like Ms. Nessuno’s not feeling too well.”

“Oh,  _ good, _ ” said Maz, visibly relieved. “Bee, you take over line control and let these people know Ms. Nessuno will be in here shortly. I’ll radio over to the table leads and tell them what’s going on.”

Bee turned on her heel and started heading down the line, helpfully guiding people into staying within the masking tape boundaries on the floor and repeating “Ms. Nessuno is running a little late, we apologize for the inconvenience” until she thought her jaw might fall off. Maz darted back and forth between the curtained booths like a little sprite until Kay came hurrying down the line and whispered into Bee’s ear, “ _ she’s here, go scan the tickets.” _

Scanning tickets was fun: at least there wasn’t so much walking involved. Bee ran back to the head of the line, snatched up the QR code reader, and brightly informed the waiting customers that they’d be starting in no time. From her vantage point, she could lean back and see through the crack in the curtain, and inside the booth stood Maz, having a low, urgent conversation with a chastised looking Ms. Nessuno in a comfortable-looking sweatshirt and jeans, Snap working on his camera settings, and… Mr. Solo, standing behind Ms. Nessuno with a very black expression on his face, wearing a light blue button-down and slacks.  _ Oh, shit. _ Bee forgot about the tickets as she leaned back slightly further to try to get a read on what was happening. 

“It’s my fault,” said Ms. Nessuno, shaking her head at Maz. “I am so, so sorry for being late, Ms. Kanata. I’ll stay longer if that’s all right.”

“It’s  _ not _ your fault,” said Mr. Solo, and Bee fought a little shiver: he sounded very, very intense.

“I don’t care whose fault it was,” said Maz, thwapping him about the head lightly with a folder. “I have three hundred people waiting for a photo op. You get yourself back to your own table, and if  _ you’re _ late for your ops at one, I’ll come over and fetch you myself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mr. Solo, shying back. He turned his head to say something, and Bee’s eyes widened: there was a reddish bruise on his neck that  _ definitely _ looked like a hickey, just under the collar, and Ms. Nessuno looked up at him, smiling, her hand resting on his forearm as she said something.  _ Holy shit! _ She turned back, offering some platitude about having to wait for a second for the cameras to be ready to the first group waiting for their photos, and looked back in. Yeah, Solo was leaving, his pinky just brushing Ms. Nessuno’s on the way out. Bee tried very hard to keep her composure, but just thinking about  _ that, _ as a situation, was threatening to bring her to her knees.  _ She’s like five-six and he’s six-four. Oh my god. Imagine. She’d look like a hamster trying to eat a baby carrot.  _

“Bee, we’re ready,” called Maz from inside, and Bee straightened up, banishing all sordid thoughts of convention guests having clandestine hookups from her mind as she scanned QR codes and politely reminded people to be careful with large cosplays on their way in. If they  _ were _ sleeping together that was  _ literally _ none of her business, and she was going to do her job and nothing else. 

Except maybe offer a bottle of water. Or several. That must be thirsty work.

* * *

Ben crumpled himself into his folding chair. “Morning, Rose,” he said apologetically, trying to avoid eye contact: a cheer had gone up from the waiting crowd at his arrival, and he waved over their heads. 

“Where have you  _ been _ ?” she hissed, red-cheeked. “I’ve been resorting to hosting sing alongs from  _ Interstellar Pursuits _ for the last fifteen minutes. Everyone’s off key. It’s a  _ terrible  _ theme song—”

“You’re the best,” he said, which made her stop in her tracks, gaping at him. “You really are, and you’re doing a great job and not even being paid for it or thanked, so. Thank you, Rose.”

“I— I— thanks,” she squeaked, and motioned on autopilot for the line to start walking up.

* * *

Ben stared at his phone, barely realizing he was smiling until Rose nudged him with her foot, alerting him to the presence of another fan, who was waiting with a box set of  _ Interstellar Pursuits.  _ “Can you autograph it?” he asked breathlessly, blinking at Ben through thick glasses. “I’ve got everyone’s signature except yours.”

“Oh, that’s  _ cool _ ,” said Ben, and it was cool: this guy was devoted to the show, and Ben was the last missing piece. He uncapped his Sharpie. “Did you know that on set, Akiva Sloane— she completely ad-libbed the coffee pot dialogue from season five, episode 4?”

“No  _ way _ !” gushed the man, beaming, and Ben kept talking, falling into it as easily as anything.

* * *

Rey escaped her table for a moment, citing a breather, and looked down at her phone from the little area behind her curtain. It had buzzed earlier, and she was desperate to know what Ben had wanted.

She waited. The bubble flickered on, then off. Through the cracks in the curtains that separated their alleys, she could just see him in the distance, cheeks glowing as he stared down, neck bent.

She grinned, but the expression left her face as her phone screen switched to black, an incoming call flashing.  _ Oh, no.  _ She tapped it and held the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“ _ Ms. Nessuno!”  _ The familiar, clipped voice of her booking agent, Larma D’Acy, came through loud and clear. “ _ So sorry to bother you, but we’ve got a bit of change of plans coming down the pipe. Your flight out of Orange City has been moved up to seven in the evening today, instead of tomorrow afternoon.” _

“What?” Rey asked, feeling as if she'd been punched in the gut.

_ Yes! I’ve squeezed in an invitation for you to attend that Fenty Beauty garden party late tonight up in New York after all!” _

“Oh. That’s… that’s great, Ms. D’Acy.” Rey shut her eyes: no round two, no goodbye with Ben, either, since she’d have to leave early to catch the plane. “Thank you. I was a little under the weather this morning, so I was planning to make up the time and stay late…”

“ _ Afraid not, dear. You can leave around five-thirty: that’ll give you enough time to get to the airport and through security, since you’ve got prechecking with the TSA. First class, seat 3A, flight AA931. Seven pm on the dot, don’t forget.” _

“I got it. Thanks. I’ll call you when I get to the airport,” Rey said, trying to sound cheery, and hung up. God  _ damnit _ . She checked her phone again, and her heart sank when she read the text she’d missed while on the phone.

  
  


Shit.  _ Shit.  _

  
  


Rey stared at the bubble and waited.

  
  


“Finn, I’m going to break for food,” she called up to her table, eyes glued to her phone as her hands started to shake. “Thirty minutes and I’ll be back.” 

Poor Finn was completely, blissfully clueless. “Okay, Ms. Nessuno, enjoy.”

* * *

The green room was stocked with comfortable sofas, snacks, a water cooler, coffee, and tea, and most importantly, it was deserted except for Ben Solo. Rey stepped in and shut the door behind her, heart pounding, and opened her mouth to apologize. “I am so sorry, my—”

Ben came down on her like a frenetic hurricane, his mouth slamming into hers, his body pinning her up against the wall. “It’s fine, it’s fine, not your fault,  _ mm _ —” he panted between kisses, and she scrambled to undo his belt, slipping the leather from the loops and fumbling with the buckle. “I have to be back in— in twenty, I lost time this morning—”

“Shut up and kiss me,” she begged, and he gladly obliged, one hand cupping the back of her neck and pulling her closer as his lips pressed into hers, his tongue exploring her bottom lip, his groan reverberating through both their chests as she reached into his slacks and palmed his already-hard cock. “Wish I could… fit you in my mouth,” she whispered.

“You. Could. You could.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “Try it. But I want you to— first— Rey—”

Well, she wasn’t going to say no to  _ that _ . “Yeah, yes, fuck—”

Ben’s big hands guided her over to the couch, dragged her down on his lap as he pulled her button-up top open at the throat, got one hand up inside her bra, and cupped her breast, rolling the nipple lightly between his fingers. Rey squirmed against his thigh as if she hadn’t been sitting on his face at nine that morning, making good work of that  _ mouth _ and that  _ nose _ , and Ben’s hand slipped down between them, into her underwear, pressing lightly at her clit, rubbing in circles,  _ just _ enough, so close—

His finger slipped inside. Then a second. Rey groaned: he was crooking his fingers, thumb still clumsily rubbing away at her clit, and it was enough: she muffled her own noises by burying her face in his neck, his shoulder, clinging to his arms as she came. “ _ Fuck _ , ah,  _ Ben _ —”

“There we go,” he murmured, still working at her body with his hand as he clung to her with his other arm. “Shh, there we go, Rey. Let me— let me just—” He pulled his fingers out as she relaxed, sitting back a little, and brought them to his mouth, slipping both between those soft lips and Rey could not fucking  _ breathe _ as his cheeks hollowed and his eyes closed, tongue curling around his fingers obscenely. “Mmm,” he hummed, and opened his eyes, looking right at her. “Now I’ll be tasting you all the way back to Seattle.”

“I thought— why did I think you lived in California?” she stammered, blushing.

“California? Who can afford that?” He shot her that crooked, sweet smile she adored and kissed her on the mouth, and she could taste herself: musky, tangy, salty on his tongue. 

“God, I want to get my mouth on you,” she gasped when he let her go. “I’m gonna try it.”

“Fuck,” he said, watching her crawl off him and tug at his pants, bringing out his cock. “Can you— I mean—will it—”

“I can try. Just don’t try to face-fuck me, all right?” She pressed a kiss to his knee and wrapped her hand around the base of his cock, closing her mouth over the broad head, and the  _ noise _ he made shook her to her bones. Rey wanted to make him make that noise again, wanted it so badly that she was willing to make herself choke if that was what it took, and let him in further, swiping him with her tongue. 

Ben wound a hand into her hair, choking. “Ah, shit,  _ shit,  _ Rey. So good, so good to me, just fucking don’t st—”

The door burst open, and Rey had just enough time to register Kay from StarPhoto’s bright voice talking about how nobody ever came back in here, and someone else chirping about the snacks they were going to steal, and then both voices stopped instantly as Rey froze, her mouth still on Ben’s dick and her brain coming to a standstill.

“Oh,  _ fuck _ ,” said Kay’s voice.

“Shit,” said Ben, and Rey pulled back, face on fire, wiping her mouth, scrambling to yank his pants back up as his hands crashed into hers, fumbling with his own clothes. “Shit,  _ shit _ —”

“Mr.  _ Solo! _ ” hissed the other girl, and Rey caught sight of her: black hair, bangs, glasses, round face wearing a scandalized expression. “You’re supposed to be on  _ lunch—” _

“Rose, can you  _ please _ not—”

“Ms. Nessuno?” spluttered Kay, blinking as Rey turned around. “Oh, oh my god, I’m— we thought nobody was—”

“Yeah, us too,” Rey managed to force out. “Look— please don’t breathe a word of this to the organizers—”

“Are you kidding? No way.” Rose, beet-red, was grinning wildly. “As long as you don’t tell them we sneaked in here and took the snacks. None of _our_ business, right, Kay?” 

“Oh, God,” said Ben, flushed to the tips of his big ears and unable to look the other woman in the eye. “Deal.”

“Deal,” Rey repeated, holding her shirt together at the front with both hands. “Get one of those baskets and go hide it under my table, if you like. I’ll have Finn run them to you.”

“Aw, sweet. Thanks!” Kay grabbed a wicker basket and dumped bags of chips and cookies and candy bars into it while Rose filled up two coffee cups and two cups of tea, then both of them made a hasty exit out the door while Rey and Ben studiously did not look at each other.

It swung shut. Rey whirled onto Ben. “I am _so_ sorry, I forgot to lock it—”

“It’s fine,” he said, and his face split into an uncontrollable grin. “And I thought my days of sexual adventures were over.”

“You… do you still want to…”

“We still have fifteen minutes left, Ms. Nessuno,” he said, eyeing her with an almost eager expression. “You’d better go lock that door and make sure you double-check it.”

* * *

Ms. Rey Nessuno left early that night, at five-thirty: she had a flight to catch and the organizers and leads were sad to see her go. She’d been such a sweet guest, going out of her way to make sure everyone else was okay all weekend.  _ We’ve got to have her back next year _ was a recurring sentiment, as well as  _ wasn’t she just great? _ Ben Solo helped Rose pack up his table at six, curtain over the unsold prints (not many left) and folded the chairs, setting them aside as her sister Paige showed up for her. “You both in college?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“That’s right,” said Paige. “I’m pre-med.”

“And I’m getting my degree in English, so you definitely know who the favorite kid is,” said Rose, wrinkling her nose good-naturedly at her sister. 

Ben nodded, picking up his wallet. “And you both showed up to work for free all weekend?”

Rose shrugged. “Yeah. Well, it was worth it. I mean, they’re saying next year we might get paid, but we got free admission, which is nice.”

“Nowhere near worth what you had to put up with, Miss Tico,” he said shortly, and leaned over, pulling out his checkbook. He hoped people could still cash checks, what with how quickly currency was becoming digital. 

“Mr. Solo—”

“Not a word. Don’t want to hear it.” He needed lawyer money, sure, but after the money he’d raked in this weekend he could afford to be nice to someone who’d been more professional than he could ever hope to have been. Rose’s eyes went as wide as saucers as he tore out the check and handed it to her. “Here you go.”

“This is— this is—” Rose gaped at the amount written on it, her face gone pale. “Mr. Solo, I really can’t accept this—”

“Well, you just did, so knock yourself out.” He slung his jacket over his shoulder. “Have a good night, Rose. Thanks for all you’ve done.”

* * *

Ben was almost out of the convention center when a young black guy (oh, wait, _Finn_ , he knew this kid: Rey’s table helper from yesterday) came running up to him, panting and blowing. “Hey! Mr. Solo! Really quick, sorry, uh— Ms. Nessuno left you a present. Said for me to tell you thanks and…” he screwed his face up, remembering “...oh. Right. Three a day.”

“Three a— what?” Ben was baffled.

“I don’t know, sir, that’s what she said and she said you'd know what it meant? And she told me to give you this.” Finn handed him a little package, and Ben took it: it was wrapped in sketchbook paper that someone had doodled little stars and flowers all over, and it rattled a little like it was made of metal when he shook it. “I gotta run. Nice to meet you. Night!”

Ben waited until he was out of sight, then opened the paper wrapping, being very careful not to tear it. Inside was an Altoids tin, and when he got his thumbnail in between the cracks to pry it open, he saw that inside were about fifteen tiny blue oval pills. 

He took out his phone.

  
  
  


Ben smiled down at his phone and put it into his pocket, walking out into the hot summer night and maybe,  _ maybe  _ he was just wondering how much it would cost to call Dameron and change his schedule so he could fly to New York for the week.

But first, he thought, first he’d send Poe a bottle of whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Details about Ben's family life and backstory didn't quite make it all into the story. Ask away for my unused ideas!
> 
> \- I FINALLY FIGURED OUT HOW TO MAKE FAKE TEXT MESSAGES IT'S OVER FOR U HOES
> 
> \- The part where Ben and Rey are running late and sighted in a Starbucks was directly lifted from one fine Sunday I worked at a Tampa convention and two actor guests did exactly that, and yes, we were racing around photo ops apologizing all morning but the actors were lovely about it.
> 
> \- holler at me on @neon_heartbeat on twitter, I have so much free time SO MUCH

**Author's Note:**

> -"Nessuno" is Italian for "nobody".
> 
> \- This Fic Brought To You By My Three Years Of Working Conventions and Like Ten Years Of Attending Them, Don't Show It To My Mom
> 
> -This fic is already completed! There will be two chapters. 
> 
> -Seoulantro is a real food truck that putters around where I live. The food is so good, you guys. So good.


End file.
